


I'm Ashamed to Say the Word Love (To Call What I Feel for You)

by WordsLeftUnspoken



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempts at meaningless sex, Auston tries really hard not to feel things, Auston's POV, Coming Out, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mitch is wonderful as always, These boys have a lot of emotions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-03-20 22:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13727628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsLeftUnspoken/pseuds/WordsLeftUnspoken
Summary: So. Here’s the thing. Auston never meant for any of this to happen. He had a plan for his life and his career and it never once looked anything remotely close to how it’s currently taking a hairpin turn and threatening to spin out of control. He never meant to end up wanting things he can’t stand to even think about without feeling sick, never meant to deviate from the safe path he’s created for himself, never meant to mix hockey – the only thing he’s sure of in life – with the one thing he’s sure he’ll always despise, never meant to look at a person he felt like he’s known forever and suddenly be struck with the realization he’s never really understood them at all. He thought he could handle whatever the hell kind of new havoc Mitch was bringing into his life; see it strictly as temptation without slipping, without breaking the rules.And you know something else? He was a fucking idiot.





	1. This Was Never the Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Seriously, if you personally know/are anyone in this story, please for the love of all that is holy run the other way screaming and save us both the embarrassment. Also if you could send a signed jersey my way, that'd be awesome :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the tags might indicate, we get some pretty nasty displays of homophobia (both internal and a few external). They do eventually get worked through as the story progresses, but I just thought I'd throw out an extra warning if you're sensitive :)

Context is probably the best thing to start with. That said, Auston knows every fucking second of his life backwards and forwards and still, being where he is right now feels unbelievable. Inexplicable, even. But however insane it might be, however much he keeps trying to shut his eyes tight until they hurt with the hope of re-opening them and finding a different fate – the reality is still true and real and staring him back in the face and ordering him to keep living it. Somehow he’s gotten himself to this point.

But anyways. Context.

 

First off: Auston’s family isn’t homophobic, per say. His sisters made a point of supporting their schools’ LGBTQ fundraisers (for a solid week twice a year rainbows were _everywhere_ ). His Mom always smiled when one of their neighbours down the road dropped by with his long-term boyfriend to ask for milk or return a set of borrowed gardening tools (but her face always seemed to fall slightly after the door closed, like the warm expression was only there due to her own effort). His Dad still makes no secret of not understanding “the whole gay thing”, shaking his head is a mixture of disinterest or exasperation whenever his sisters try to explain it to him (“not my problem anyway”, he usually mutters, changing the subject quickly).

But no one goes to rallies, no one prays in Church that the homosexuals will burn in Hell (they barely pray anyway), no one plans to desecrate graves of fallen gay soldiers. It’s just the occasional subtle comments, hidden discomfort, overcompensations to appear tolerant – the little things that set this underlying expectation of deviance, or an “us” and “them” mentality that mostly come from his parents. They’ll sometimes toss out the famous “that was just how I grew up” excuse, Alexandria especially calling bullshit on that one (sometimes even using those words, usually resulting in extra chores and a stern lecture about language).

After the PULSE nightclub shooting, his Dad was flipping through the newspaper like an old man, and absentmindedly commented “I don’t know why all those gays would gather in one place like that. Especially at night. People like _that_ , something bad is bound to happen eventually.”

After a long, tense moment of silence, his sisters were down his Dad’s throat with adamant protests, even his Mom admonishing quietly, “Brian, some of them were practically children!”

Even Auston knew he’d gone way over the line with that remark, something heavy settling in the bottom of his stomach like a lead ball with a significance he didn’t really understand – or at least, _tried_ not to understand. He remembers schooling his reaction to show absolutely nothing; silence and emptiness. It was just about how he felt.

His Dad had looked up to see his wife and daughters’ faces along with Auston’s especially blank expression, and sighed. When he apologized, it actually sounded genuine, agreeing to watch the tribute video released about the victims that Breyana had been asking him to see.

Auston didn’t stay for that though. He went to the gym and pushed himself unless he was sweating and shaking and the trainer at the gym asked firmly if he should take a break for five minutes to catch his breath. The room spun when he stepped off the machine, and he finished his bottle of water in long swallows, heading to the changeroom without another word. He figured his mind had probably shut up from the over-exertion long enough to allow him to actually get some sleep.

He got five and half hours that night and called it a win.

xx

It came up during his years in lower-level hockey sometimes, a certain six-letter f-word tossed around regularly with no sign of regulation by the coaches or parents who happen to overhear. One older kid name Jace in particular would really try to get under another guy’s skin in the locker room or after practice, mainly because his Mom left his Dad for another woman.

“It’s in your blood,” he would hiss, getting up in his face with a disgusted expression. “You’re infected now too.”

Jace maintained that the other kid had to change in the closed stalls “so he wouldn’t get any ideas around the rest of us”. He liked to think of himself as the team’s “protector from the homos” or some shit like that. Sometimes the kid would cry and try to hide it when the jabs got particularly nasty, but that only made it worse.

“You even cry like a girl,” Jace would laugh, the room filling with chuckles and snorts. Auston watched silently and did nothing.

Somehow the kid’s Dad found out about it, stalking into the locker room after practice one day, and for a split second Jace’s face looked white as a sheet when he immediately stood above him on the bench with tightly crossed arms.

“Toughen him up,” was all the kid’s Dad said before turning around and walking out. Jace sat frozen for a moment, one skate on, one skate off. And then he grinned with dark eyes in a way that made Auston swallow hard.

Nothing malicious ever came from that visit though. Another guy’s Mother overheard the conversation and reported it to head office. The kid never came back for another game; he and his Dad moving far West soon after with Child Services right on their heels (if the plentiful gossip was to be believed).

Auston didn’t give a shit. He was 12 and always hungry and just wanted to play hockey. It did teach him one thing though. If he wanted to make it big in the NHL, anything other than wolf-whistling at women and talking about boobs was unacceptable when discussing sex or dating.

And that was fine, probably. Hockey always came first. If that’s what he needed to do, he could do that. He could make sure his head stayed on track.

And so he did.

xx

Classes were virtually silent about homosexuality, not that Auston really paid attention to school anyway. His friends and teammates all ignored or quietly mocked the ‘Rainbow Parade’ held twice a year in support of LGBT rights during high school, and Auston usually kept his mouth shut, claiming he “had to pretend to not hate it because of his sisters”. Every so often though he’d drop a scathing line in his best friend’s ear or snicker rudely at the dudes walking around in skirts just to avoid suspicion.

In his Junior year he was shoved into being lookout while a few buddies unplugged the mics that would be used for a presentation and drew giant dicks on a huge “support lesbians” poster. Turns out the mics were already fully charged by the time they got to them, but an eruption of laughter rocked the crowd when the poster was unveiled.

Honestly? It felt good. Safe; just letting the hate and disdain blanket anything that was already too confusing to even consider looking at, and flooding his mind with the electricity of doing something that was probably pretty shitty and gaining steady “normal” points in the eyes of his friends. His _teammates_. They never hurt anyone; just fucked around a bit, had a few laughs, made a couple memories, helped solidify their status as a ride-or-die crew to the playoffs.

But quietly mocking or taking passing jabs at gays turned dangerously quickly from something he occasionally did to blend in and stay involved with the team into a full-on coping strategy for pushing down any thoughts that he knew would be unacceptable. Auston saw a guy who’s smile looked kind of beautiful, he made a chirp to his friend about how his outfit looked girly. His best friend found his Dad’s recent issue of Playboy with images of women that made Auston wish the bodies looked entirely different, he dropped a one-liner a few hours later about how a girl in their class dressed like a butch. A guy Auston was trying not have a crush on got turned down for an upcoming dance, he pushed down the jealously by chirping that the girl probably wasn’t capable of handling dick anyway. It wasn’t something he sat down and thought about, channeling the energy and thoughts that way, nor an activity he took particular joy in doing. Regardless, somewhere along the line, it happened.

 _It was for hockey_ , Auston told himself late at night, lying in bed with uncomfortable memories and questions about morality gnawing at his brain. Always for hockey. And if it maybe helped him shove down thoughts he didn’t want to be thinking about in the first place? All the better.

 

One day in his Senior year his friends were playing a game of pick up on Auston’s street, and on a quick water break, his teammate Ryan mentioned how he just found out a girl he knew really well from his old school “was sent to this camp where she was starved and locked in a room to try and take the dyke out of her”.

“Dude, I heard about that,” his friend Liam added seriously, nodding. “She almost died or some shit. Crazy.”

Auston stick handled that ball impatiently, popping it up in the air. “Yeah, but did it work?” he asked distractedly. When the ball dropped, he looked up to see Liam staring at him. “What?” he pressed, looking around at the uncomfortable expressions and a couple averted eyes.

“ _Fuck_ , Matthews,” his linemate Taylor commented with a raised eyebrow, unimpressed. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“She was my _girlfriend_ before all this went down, you fucking asshole,” Ryan informed him with glare.

Auston tried not to think too much, shrugged his shoulders, talked before he knew what he was saying. “So were you the one who turned her queer then, or what?” he asked, focusing his attention on trying to get the ball up in the air again.

The fist hit him clean in the nose before he could even register he’d been tackled to the pavement. He could feel blood dripping from his face as Ryan was pulled off of him with great effort by his friends who were cussing and yelling with contradictory frantic attempts at calming everyone down filling the hot, dry air. Ryan spit viciously at him before Taylor led the fuming winger away by his shoulders, talking low and firm. The sticks and net were left in the street as everyone stood around not looking at each other, completely forgotten until a car honked rudely in a staccato rhythm until Liam kicked the equipment out of the way while presenting a prominent middle finger to the impatient driver.

Hockey – maybe for the first time in Auston’s life – seemed a little irrelevant.

 

That was the day when Auston learned there was a limit. A difference between quietly chirping and spouting words that genuinely hurt people. He didn’t like making someone look the way Ryan did as he stared down with angry tears threatening, getting out a shaky “ _you don’t talk about her_ ,” before being yanked away. Didn’t like picturing the broken expression on his friend’s face when he thought about how he’d affected people in his life. Didn’t like the knowledge that he had the capacity to shatter someone that deep.

He hated it. Fucking despised it.

So immediately after that day, he started turning off all the slurs and hate and brutal observations he said _externally_ and shoved all of it _internally._ Inside of his own head.

And it works. It’s disturbingly effective, actually. It’s really hard to even think about another dude in a sexual capacity if the disgust gets in the way before the thought can even form. He’s been using it ever since that pick-up hockey game on the street outside his house on a blistering hot day in Scottsdale, Arizona. A wonderful reminder of home – and what damage letting that side of him take control can really do.

That system has been the only thing that’s kept his head in the game and gotten him to where he is now: drafted, accepted, and playing for what are probably the most insane fans in the greatest hockey city the NHL has to offer. And he adores it. Every second feels like he’s living the dream he wasn’t sure was truly possible. Flying into Toronto, his little mental issue he struggles with was probably the last thing on his mind. And why wouldn’t it be? He had it under control, under wraps, almost non-existent – exactly as it should be.

 

And then Mitch Marner happened.

xx

There had always been something there, ever since that first day of training camp when they shattered the glass and the eternal grin Mitch always seemed to wear grew just a little bit wider. Auston remembers exactly looking at his face and being hypnotised by the way the blue eyes seemed to glitter under the harsh lights of the rink. When Mitch skated over and held out his hand for a fist bump and commented happily “I think we’re gonna be a thing now”, that was the true moment when Auston knew he was fucked. Not because they might get billed for the replacement glass, but because the idea of the two of them being “a thing” made his chest jump and twist and spark in a way he’d never before felt so intensely.

It took him a long time to realize that feeling was desire.

He tried to stop it. He really did. But then they both made the team and started to carpool and they just-

They _work_. Really, really well. Even with all the differences in their personalities and music tastes and energy levels, they work. Patty told them once that they compliment each other, and Auston’s pretty sure that’s the perfect way to put it. When Mitch is rash, Auston slows him down. When Auston’s apathetic, Mitch never fails to make him smile and pump him up. They read each other probably better than anyone else in the world (family included). When one of them has a bad game, the other will intuitively know if they need to sit down and watch tape and strategize, or just say “fuck it” and drink a shitton of beer and marathon Game of Thrones. And yeah, they bicker “like a goddamned old married couple” (according to JVR), but the banter is a part of their friendship; a give and take that they’ve nailed to perfection.

What really gets Auston is how absurdly _easy_ it is to slip into being best friends with Mitch. It’s absolutely effortless. He can say whatever, do whatever, be whatever – and it’s all good. Mitch will chirp, yeah, but in reality, he’s one of the least judgemental people Auston’s ever met. Honestly though, one of the biggest indications that their relationship would click is how they’ve always treated silence. Considering how much time they spend together, there’s often random gaps in conversation, but thankfully theirs is one of the few relationships he’s ever had where the spontaneous bits of silence aren’t awkward. Sometimes they fill it with music and sometimes they leave the quiet to just be quiet together, dicking around on their phones in the same room.

They don’t fight, at least – not like, _really_ fight. The closest they had was when an idiotic argument about a shitty game near the end of their first season snowballed into picking apart each other’s plays (something agreed a long time ago never to do when they were pissed), evolving into an almost three-day period where they barely spoke and were hideously cordial during practice; both too stupidly proud to admit the feud was asinine. The team watched it all happened with wide eyes and horrified expressions, scared to intervene, but eventually tricking them into a locked room to sort their crap out. It was all of three seconds of silence and staring at each other before Mitch muttered “This is fucking bullshit” and wrapped Auston in a massive bear hug. Auston snorted at the surrender, but the way his arms pulled his best friend against him sort of counter-acted that façade of nonchalance.

They chilled later that night at Auston’s place for a Game of Thrones binge, and at some point he looked up to see Mitch staring at nothing with a lost expression on his face, but still somehow appearing content. Auston poked him gently with his foot and waited until Mitch blinked a few times and refocused his eyes before asking quietly “Where’d you go?”

Mitch gave him a tiny smile and sunk deeper into the soft pillows on the couch, exhaling in a way that sounded like a long-held release. “I think I just needed this,” he finally said into the calm air, voice careful, as if he was feeling something out.

Auston felt his chest do a weird thing he tried to ignore and returned the small smile, letting the genuine relief of them hanging out again seep through his expression. “Yeah,” he admitted, not needing an elaboration on what exactly the ‘this’ Mitch was talking about. “Me too.”

They barely spoke for the rest of that evening, but Auston couldn’t have asked for a more perfect night.

 

Overall, it’s a ridiculously comfortable friendship, and Auston never once takes that for granted. The problem arises, however, when half of his brain is happy just shoving and laughing and chirping and being close teammates, and the other half…

The other can’t exist, really. It just can’t happen.

Except it does.

Exist, that is. Louder than he’s ever heard it before.

It exists when Mitch dances shirtless around the dressing room to music playing from his phone with droplets of water rolling down the muscles on his chest. It exists when they have late-night Netflix marathons and the light from the TV flickers on the angles of his cheekbones in the otherwise darkened room. It exists when Mitch falls asleep on the plane and his head slowly falls over onto Auston’s shoulder with a contented sigh. It exists when Auston says something especially dry and humorous and Mitch will just stare at him and shake his head with eyes glinting with unashamed affection. It exists when Mitch gives him a hug and they stay locked together for a little too long for ‘just bros’; breathing and pretending to not enjoy the warmth. It exists when Auston realizes that the unnecessary eye contact he sometimes shares with Mitch is far too extended and way too fucking captivating to be something he’d want to have with anyone else in his life. It exists when Auston feels a burning handprint imprinted onto his lower back, or right shoulder, or left thigh whenever Mitch touches him there. It exists when Willy chirps them about dancing around each other and Auston snaps at him harder than appropriate just to attempt to counteract the jumping spark in his chest at the prospect.

 

And, okay. So. Here’s the thing. Auston never meant for any of this to happen. He had a fucking plan for his life and his career and it never once looked anything remotely close to how it’s currently taking a hairpin turn and threatening to spin out of control. He never meant to end up wanting things he can’t stand to even think about without feeling sick, never meant to deviate from the safe path he’s created for himself, never meant to mix hockey – the only thing he’s sure of in life – with the one thing he’s sure he’ll always despise, never meant to look at a person he felt like he’s known forever and suddenly be struck with the realization he’s never really understood them at all.

But here he is. Remembering all the goddamned context and watching the events pass by, feeling himself careen down a path he’s run away from his entire life and for whatever reason not finding the will or strength to stop it. He thought he could handle whatever the hell kind of new havoc Mitch was bringing into his life – see it strictly as temptation without slipping, without breaking the rules.

And you know something else? He was a fucking idiot.

xx

The first time it happens they're both drunk – like _really_ drunk – because of course they are. There’s something about the night, the club, the laughter, the absurdly expensive shots that just feel dangerous, reckless; wonderfully so. The alcohol isn’t the only thing intoxicating him under the cascading lights in the dark room. Even so, Auston thought he'd have enough warning flags planted deep inside his brain to keep himself in check; wouldn't let Mitch drag him into the dance floor, wouldn't give in the pounding music, wouldn't let his hands settle against Mitch's hips as they move instinctively with the ebbing crowd, wouldn't get lost in the moment and the thrill of a good win, wouldn’t permit strong arms to wind loosely around his neck, wouldn't feel anything less that repulsed when they brush up together in a move that is probably more like grind and feels something hard poking into his thigh, wouldn’t understand what that means and do anything except immediately walk away.

But no, with a toxic amount of alcohol rushing through his veins and barrelling down his mental barriers, Auston pulls him _closer_ , slamming their hips together with the drop of the bass, revealing all too clearly that Mitch's "problem" is apparently a two-way street.

Wide eyes stare back at him, a little sobering, but not nearly enough stop the insatiable need from growing and growing until the fizzing and crackling want spills over.

They’ve been fucked since the first time their gazes met, and they’re sure as hell fucked now.

"C'mon," Auston mutters in his ear, heart racing and brain struggling to catch up. He pulls Mitch through the crowd, at least having the presence of mind to scan around for his teammates watching, but they’re all otherwise occupied either drinking or dancing to notice. They finally get to the downstairs bathroom, miraculously empty, and he throws the lock shut with a heavy click.

"Tell me if you don't want this now," he warns, stalking toward where Mitch is pressed against the wall, ears still ringing with the echoes of a pounding beat.

"Fuck that," is all he says, grinning widely, and pulls Auston the rest of the way in.

It’s messy and rushed and should probably be disgusting, going at it in the dirty bathroom of a club. But somehow it’s better than all of the sex Auston’s had with his random female hookups combined. He doesn’t let the kisses become anything more than sloppy and wet, cutting himself off from anything that could be considered careful or meaningful. It’s just as well anyway; the amount of alcohol flooding his bloodstream making anything requiring any sort of finesse impossible. But even those hurried brushes of tongue are setting his body on fire, aching for something he’s never once allowed himself, the danger adding another layer to the desire.

Mitch’s hands are resting low on his ass, pulling him in so their hips are forced against each other again. Auston moves instinctively, not having anything else to go on, thrusting up a little, and Mitch whines into his mouth at the friction, fingers digging in.

The sound is like an explosion, and Auston’s whole mind shuts down for a split second when he feels the vibration of it on his tongue. He reaches for Mitch’s jeans, unbuttoning with no idea what the fuck he’s planning on doing next, but needing to do it all the same. He’s never been one to half-ass anything – even the shit that’s fated to end in disaster.

“Holy fuck, are we actually doing this?” Mitch asks breathlessly, head pressed back against the wall.

Auston doesn’t think he can actually talk right now, so he just nods, swallowing hard and pushing Mitch’s jeans down over his hips. He can hear the voices in the back of his mind screaming to turn around and run, but the combination of too many drinks and Mitch’s close proximity have made them muted and unimportant, his entire safety grid temporarily offline.

Mitch quickly gets Auston’s jeans undone and out of the way as well, wetting his lips with hovering hands and looking up like he’s asking permission.

The words get caught in his throat, the _fuck, please, for the love of God just touch me_ buried thankfully somewhere he can’t reach, so he closes his eyes, trying to dig out whatever he can through all the dozens of roadblocks he’s created for himself over the years. In the end, all that comes out is a strained, “Yeah”, but that’s all it takes for Mitch to reach inside his boxers and give him a long, firm stroke.

Lighting. It fucking feels like _lighting_ ; every pull, every teasing rub over the head, every tight slide through Mitch’s slicked fingers. Auston’s biting hard onto his mouth and tongue and whatever it takes to not make the sounds bursting in his chest escape into the air. It’s just so _much_.

He moves without even thinking, taking Mitch’s dick in his hand and trying to mirror the actions being done to him, trying to cause even a fraction of the euphoria lighting up his body and commanding his existence. He’s doing a decent job if the breathy “fuck, fuck, fuck” he’s hearing tells him anything. There’s a banging on the door at one point, but they’re both too far gone to even give a shit, speeding up their movements in tandem until their foreheads are pressed together and they’re breathing into each other’s mouths and thrusting up into it like nothing else could ever matter.

Mitch lets out a quiet moan as a warning before Auston feels wet on his hand, taking a split second to understand that _he did that_ , and the flashing realization along with a wicked twist of Mitch’s wrist is enough to push him right over the edge. Fireworks explode behind his closed eyelids and he tastes blood on his tongue as he swallows the scream that wants to be let out into the hot and sticky air, body vibrating with the convulsions of what is probably the strongest orgasm of his life.

For a good second Auston’s terrified he might collapse of the spot after that, legs wobbly and head heavy. He feels Mitch lean forward and press his lips onto his jaw as they come down, lingering and gentle and caring and-

Wrong. Wrong. This is-

No. Fucking- What the actual fuck did he just-

 _No. No._ There’s a reason why he can’t, and now… Now-

Auston backs away abruptly, all the old thoughts creeping in, and it’s like whiplash feeling them come back so sharp and strong. He keeps his head down, catching his breath and reaching into the closest stall to grab a roll of unattached toilet paper. He cleans Mitch’s come off his hands and wipes off the little bit on his thighs. He thinks a little hysterically that he doesn’t even know who the sticky substance coating his skin belongs to, but tries to shove that panic aside and wordlessly throws Mitch the leftover clean toilet paper. He does his jeans back up in a familiar motion, zipping the fly, a million thoughts running through his head until he can break in down into three main categories.

Number one is that this was a mistake. A lapse in judgement. A stupid decision made in a haze of alcoholic insanity that he now has to live with. That _they_ have to live with.

Number two isn’t even a thought, really; just blistering disappointment in himself. Auston doesn’t linger too long on that one.

Number three, the strongest one, is simply an overwhelming urge to fix this. Limit the damage. Stop it before it gets impossibly worse that it already is.

Mitch finishes cleaning himself up and tosses the toilet paper in the trash before ditching the roll in another stall. He hasn’t said anything either, but the look on his face when Auston glances over definitely means he wants to.

So he’ll just have to get there first.

"One time thing," Auston says firmly, stepping over to wash his hands at the sink, unable to resist stealing a glimpse up into the mirror to see the reaction.

Mitch blinks, like he's internally switching gears, but after a moment he nods, meeting Auston’s gaze in the glass. "One time thing,” he agrees, a ghost of a smile trying to grace his partly swollen lips.

 

Except it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm finally posting this story. It's been a long time coming since these two have slipped underneath my skin and made a home for themselves. I've always been a Leafs fan, and the chemistry on this team never fails to blow my mind (if you ever feel like freaking out about a game with me, feel free to sound off in the comments). Anyway. This is my first time publishing this pairing, so I'm a bit nervous but also just absurdly excited. Also, the title of the chapter comes from a song by Aaron of the same name (all the chapter titles will come from songs because I'm ridiculous). The song isn't particularly relevant, but the lyric fit.
> 
> In any case, I really hope you liked the first chapter this saga, and I hope to see you guys down in the comments :)


	2. No, I Don’t Know (How to Forget You)

It’s been maybe a week since the evening Auston doesn’t think about at the club, and aside from the occasional flashback and one excessively vivid dream, nothing too weird has come from it. Granted, the fact that there’s no alcohol involved when he gets a blindsiding urge to pin Mitch against a wall after he shoots in the winning goal in OT (or the time when he wakes up in bed sweating and half-hard with the echo of a moan in his ears) makes it significantly harder to pretend these ideas are simply the ethanol poisoning his thoughts, but he’s coping, same as always. Anything that went down when he clearly wasn’t himself is in the past and to be forgotten. All that matters is moving on.

And they’re getting back to it, spending most of their off day together; Auston driving Mitch to his apartment after a team interview and then just never leaving. Food is eaten, COD is played (Auston does not lose. He doesn't), and Netflix choices are heatedly debated until they finally agree on re-watching Lost for the 3rd time. It's nice, easy; just lazing around on the sofa and occasionally offering commentary about a hated character or a favourite part that's coming up (every part seems to be Mitch's favourite part). They're both texting every so often, messing around on Instagram and Twitter, and honestly, it's just really chill. Two bros hanging out. No need to complicate things. No need to overthink anything.

Except then Mitch spills guacamole on his t-shirt and pulls it off, throwing it in the vague direction of his room, making no move to get a fresh one.

"Nice," Auston comments on the cleanliness, trying to sound blank and only partly succeeding.

Mitch rolls his eyes, kicking his knee with just enough force to really feel it. But then he doesn't move his foot after it skids overtop its target, resting it casually on Auston's lap.

It's a foot. It shouldn't mean anything. Mitch is still looking at the screen with rapt attention, as if resting like this is a regular occurrence when it clearly isn’t. It feels oddly domestic, even more so when a second foot joins the first, Mitch stretching out the length of his body and re-positioning himself with a large pillow under his where his head is propped up on his folded arms, perfectly comfortable. And shirtless. And half on top of Auston.

Auston swallows, wondering why the temperature suddenly feels like it’s gone up a half dozen degrees. His mind feels like a battleground is forming between the thoughts wanting to appear and the ones immediately being shot down. His eyes stray without permission to the bare skin of Mitch’s chest, falling down slowly to the rows of muscle on his abs before he snaps out of it, forcing his gaze back to the screen.

He’s not going down this road again. He’s done it before and hates himself for it. A repeat performance is not – and will never be – in the cards. No temptation.

Auston pushes Mitch’s feet and legs off of him, trying to look like he’s just messing around as opposed to revealing the thin layer of panic starting to form. Mitch doesn’t look away from the show, quickly responding by kicking the closest leg to him, a devious smirk the only sign of his amusement. Auston feels a tiny grin form on his lips despite himself and unfolds his tucked up leg to retaliate by delivering a swift kick on Mitch’s left hip, not hard enough to bruise, but certainly hard enough to start something.

“Oh, you fucking bastard,” Mitch mutters, pausing the TV and unsurprisingly launching himself at Auston’s body in a full-on tackle.

It’s definitely on from there, trading half-hearted punches and slaps, Auston getting in a solid knee to Mitch’s core and making him curse again. Auston’s trying to ignore the fact that’s there’s only one shirt separating them instead of two, but his competitiveness kicks in and overrules any of that discomfort. He uses his weight advantage to push Mitch’s flailing body over to the other side of the large couch, effectively flipping them, and gets in a victorious laugh before he receives a wild punch to his shoulder that has some legitimate strength to it. It’s a bit of a wresting match after that, grabbing onto fabric and scrabbling for positions and pulling each other closer to get a better hold. Everything starts blurring together, the pounding of their hearts, the quickening breaths, the smiles and glittering eyes that are somehow shifting into something that feels more intense, more urgent. The brush of skin, the tightening of muscles, the tangle of limbs; an evolution occurring without either of them realizing. Or stopping. They’re just so close. _So_ close. Racing towards something that can’t be named or spoken of but must be caught.

Mitch pulls at the back of his neck and Auston tugs roughly on a belt loop and their hips collide and they’re kissing before Auston even knows what happened or who started it or who's to blame, but it feels too fucking amazing to care. The way Mitch’s tongue is massaging his own instantly fries every other objecting part in his brain, his limbs grabbing on tightly with a very different objective. The lack of alcohol means he can really feel it now; all the differences from hooking up with women. The bigger hands, stronger frame, wider chest and waist, ridiculous muscle, longer legs; everything just  _clicks_ , like after this it’ll be incredibly difficult to lie to himself about not liking anything other than females on the very rare occasion he allows the practice of thinking about it.

It’s a stupid fucking thing to do when he’s spent the majority of his life fighting the potential of that cemented revelation, but he can’t stop it, can’t say no, can’t do anything except hold on and let his body move in the ways it’s been screaming to for years. Mitch is pulling his shirt off with all the finesse of a gorilla, but Auston visibly shakes when yanks his jeans down, so he’s not exactly one to talk.

From there they’re naked and pressed up on the couch in about fifteen seconds flat, gracelessly grinding their hips together and licking into each other’s mouths with Auston on top like he knows what’s supposed to happen next. Like he’s in control. Honestly, he’s probably never felt more out of his mind and out of his element in his entire time on the planet.

But maybe Mitch senses this, because he breaks their sloppy kiss to throw his head back a bit and ask in an obscenely throaty tone, “You wanna get off like this, or do you want me to touch you?”

Auston chokes at the blatant question, he can’t help it, and Mitch grins back at him, eyes dark with promise. He reaches up, one hand stilling Auston’s still-twitching hip, the other moving to grasp their dicks together, smearing both of their precum to get a nice wet grip, sliding into a rhythm.

It feels… Just-

Auston will probably never be able to properly explain exactly how it feels. It feels like his eyes rolling back in his head. It feels like pressing the accelerator of a luxury car to the floor, zero-to-sixty in 2.5. It feels like all his muscles straining to get more. It feels like a sharp pain in his throat from trying to keep the noises inside. It feels like his whole body sparking like electricity meeting water. It feels like balled up fists against the fabric of the couch in an attempt to stop himself from touching. It feels like his toes curling without him intentionally telling them to move.

It feels like the most dangerous and alluring door opening right into front of him and offering up everything he never knew he could have with a list of caveats longer than his arm, and Auston’s standing right on the threshold, doing everything he can to keep from losing the only shot at normal he’s got.

And it’s pretty damn hard to say no when he’s writhing in pleasure from Mitch’s body.

It’s a bit of a weird angle, two tall guys shoved together on one (albeit massive) couch, but somehow it works and it works  _beautifully_. Mitch keeps letting out these tiny breathless whines, like he’s trying and failing to keep them in, and it’s doing unspeakably powerful things to Auston’s control. They’ve got a solid rhythm going, thrusting into where Mitch’s hands are keeping them rubbing up against each other in the tight vice, Auston’s shoulders crying out in protest at keeping his body up and moving for so long.

“I’m not-” Mitch tries in a tight voice, stopping for a half cut-off groan with a swivel of his hips. “I’m gonna-”

Auston’s heart stutters at what feels like the most wonderful, explicit show being put on only for him as Mitch throws his head way back with his eyes pressed shut, neck entirely exposed, skin flushed all the way down to his chest. He feels the desire for action almost the same time he registers himself leaning down to latch his lips around a spot on Mitch’s newly bared throat, sucking sharply as a shot of adrenaline kicks the explosion of chemicals in his blood up to a new level at defying yet another rule. He hears a broken moan and feels the vibration against his lips and Mitch’s grip bares down and Auston’s  _done_ , spending himself over Mitch’s tight fingers and digging his nails into his palms as the euphoria comes in what feels like never-ending waves.

 

Eventually they come down from it, both of them panting slower and slower as their heads gradually come back to Earth, locked in the same positions like their muscles are refusing to move from being this close. And Auston should probably be basking in the afterglow or something, but the only thing that’s thrumming through his being with every heartbeat in an echo is a single message, over and over and over again:  _What have you done?_

What has he done? He broke just about every rule he’s created and upheld about his sex life. He gave in to the urge that he doesn’t even want to admit exists. He didn’t let it stay a ‘one time thing’. He effectively destroyed the possibility of ever looking at Mitch as anyone other than a friend and teammate. He broke his code.

This needs to end, and it needs to end now.

It goes against the most basic urge in Auston’s body to pull away, to push himself up and off the couch and onto shaky legs and burning muscles and stand with his back to the temptation. But he does it. And he both hates and loves that he’s capable of it. He slowly unfurls his still clenches hands and looks at the crescent shaped marks imbedded in his skin.

 _Damage_. He’s done damage. Except it’s not only to the physical part of him.

He utilizes the tissue box on the coffee table, silently wiping up all the evidence that he can find and throwing it away, trying not to shiver at touching his overstimulated dick. He throws the box behind him onto the couch without turning around, opting instead to start finding his clothes scattered across the floor and throwing them on as quickly as possible. He needs to get out of this apartment.

“So, what?” Mitch asks from the couch, his voice a mix between confused and hurt and annoyed all at once. “You’re just not even gonna look at me? Or say anything? Because even if it doesn’t mean anything deep, that’s still pretty shitty, dude.”

Auston grabs his phone from the coffee table and slips into his shoes without looking back, swallowing hard when he can’t be seen. He gets his hand on the door handle when he hears a baffled and slightly indignant “ _Auston_.”

He freezes; can’t even think with the number of conflicting orders screaming through his head. “Sorry,” he whispers, because that’s the one word that keeps making it through.

“So… sorry you’ll turn around?” Mitch asks expectantly. “Sorry you’ll actually talk to me now?”

Auston feels his muscles stiffen with the demands being made, a thick steel wall going up, creating the boundary whether he likes it or not. “I said I was sorry,” he clarifies, still staring at the door, and he sounds cold even to his own ears. “I didn’t say I’d stop. That’s not- That’s not happening.” He turns the handle and leaves Mitch’s apartment before he can hear a response, and another word slips through his mind like a murmur carried by the wind. A different voice this time.

_Coward._

And maybe he is. But he’s doing what he has to.

xx

The next time Auston sees Mitch is for practice the following morning. He’s scared shitless and trying to hide it waiting outside his apartment in his car, trying to figure out how he’s gonna play it depending on how Mitch is acting. It’s hard to actually reason through things when his brain isn’t actually letting him admit that he almost blacked out from Mitch’s hand on him the night before, so he decides to just follow suit with that strategy and pretend like nothing happened. If questions get asked… Well, he’s just gonna have to deal with them as they come. By not answering anything.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks to himself, closing his eyes and taking a hopefully grounding breath. _This doesn’t have the potential to blow up at_ all _._

It’s another minute of scrolling through Instagram if for no other reason than for something to do before the side door opens and Mitch is dumping his bag in the back seat with a slightly less enthusiastic than usual “’Sup?”

Auston decides to lead by example and act normal, poking at his rib where there’s a tiny spot of sauce on his jacket. “Nice threads,” he comments with a smirk, starting the car.

Mitch looks down and groans, throwing his head back dramatically against the seat. “Fuck you,” he complains, but there’s no viciousness in his tone, just the same harmless exasperation he’s become used to.

“You’re welcome,” Auston contributes, pulling onto the road with a tiny bit of hope that things won’t be weird.

“Just for that I’m putting on country music,” Mitch grumbles, fiddling with his phone and the car’s Bluetooth speakers. “And it’s gonna be _loud_.”  

“I’m sorry, are you saying that every other morning it’s  _quiet_?” Auston asks incredulously, looking over with the excuse of a red light.

It’s the first time they’ve made proper eye contact since Mitch has gotten into the car. He has slight dark circles under each of his eyes, and Auston wonders for a split second if their fight or discussion or whatever the hell it was kept him awake. A pang of guilt hits his chest, another emotion too, but he doesn’t have time to identify it before its existence is being disregarded by the controlling power in his brain. Mitch looks at him a little too closely as well, just for a moment, and then he’s back to smiling and setting up the music, apparently finding the information he was looking for on Auston’s face.

That fact is mildly disconcerting to Auston, who’s pretty sure he wasn’t giving away any vibes or subliminal messages except ‘normalcy’. But maybe that’s what Mitch took away, because he selects a song and starts belting out the words like he’s on American Idol, doing percussion on the dashboard just like always.

Auston makes a disgusted noise as he starts driving again, because he did not pay extra for the sound system to have it polluted with music like this. But even as he tells Mitch this, his lips are turning up treacherously at the corners, because yeah, the song is absolute shit, but it might just be worth it to see the impromptu awkward sitting dance moves that always come along with it. Auston tries not to overthink that.

He also tries to not overthink that everything seems to slip back to the way they were before he lost his self-control and let things happen that never,  _ever_ should’ve gone down. He’s lucky, that’s all. Lucky that Mitch seems to be content with letting the whole thing drop, lucky he didn’t have to refuse to answer any more questions, lucky they can push and flick and be physical in entirely platonic ways during practice and know there’s nothing else there except best friends being weird together.

It’s normal. Just like he wanted. Now all Auston has to do is never let himself slip again, and they’ll be fine.

xx

Except that’s not the last time that he slips. The third time happens after they’re celebrating a hard earned road win against the Habs. A few beers back in their hotel room turns into a few rounds of staring contests cross legged on Mitch’s bed that end in them getting closer and closer to try and psych each other out. Auston tries to tell himself that the fact they end up clumsily making out while getting each other off is really a win because Mitch was the one who lunged forward and broke the staring contest. It’s a shitty consolation prize for the massive headache and self-loathing that hit him a few minutes afterward. The lights go out almost immediately after they’ve cleaned up and no one says a word until the alarm goes off in the morning.

Auston’s certain there’s now an unspoken agreement that they’ll pretend nothing ever happened.

The fourth time it happens it’s all CBC’s fault. They decide to do a feature about best friends in professional sports across Canada, and naturally he and Mitch are chosen as worthy candidates (much to the delight of the team). The chirps are plentiful for the few days before the release, and the end result chronicles their friendship from Day 1 in training camp forward. It’s pretty touching, if Auston’s being honest, but a part of him aches whenever he sees an extended clip of them laughing or staring happily at each other. It’s like he can see now in his own eyes the desire he’s now constantly battling against. Naturally Mitch thinks it’s the greatest thing in the world, and he brings it up on his laptop after a group hangout at his apartment and they’re the only two left standing. Auston abruptly slams the lid shut after the bit about them singing Bon Jovi together on the bench, trying to conceal that his hands are shaking. Mitch immediately starts whining, apparently not picking up on the discomfort the video is causing, and Auston finally pushes him against the counter and shoves their mouths together just to get him to shut the fuck up about the feature that conjures a sensation a bit like slicing his heart open.

They don't even make it out of the middle of Mitch’s kitchen, Auston drowning at how the breath tickling his lips catches when he gets his hand on both of them. The kisses are messy and brutal and frequently abandoned for gasping as they thrust into where their fists are keeping their dicks rubbing together. All it takes is a barely-there twisting motion he's learning Mitch likes to make him come on a loud groan, spurting wetly onto their hands. Auston tries to pretend that a clip from the CBC feature in his minds-eye of the two of them laughing together at practice  _isn’t_  what puts him over the edge, but a quick glance at the abandoned laptop on the table triggers the memory and instantly he’s done too.

It’s a fucking problem how much his emotions seem to spill over when he slips like this, letting himself go with Mitch and having the greatest orgasms of his life no matter how awkward or spontaneous the circumstances or location. He's trying so hard to keep the feelings separate from the sex, and each time he walks away he can't help the realization that's he's failing miserably.

The fifth time it happens Auston stops counting because that’s probably just making it worse; cataloging the tiny gaps of time in which he truly feels alive before crashing down the Earth. He just lays there afterwards, going over every time he’s done this and firmly reminds himself he despises every second of it; finds it disgusting, sees it as deviance and nothing more. And then he drops the counting, opting instead to try to bury the memories and shove them into the dark corners of his mind he doesn’t ever touch so that any time he tries to summon them all he’ll get is static. It comes from a place of shame in himself, but there’s also a deeper part of himself that needs to keep Mitch in his life, however it is he can. To do that, he has to compartmentalize; otherwise all he’ll see when he looks at his best friend is a reminder of his own failure and disgust.

It’s a fine line, the one Auston’s walking; one that’s rooted deeply in denial and confusion and want and confliction. But it’s all he has if hockey is priority – and hockey is  _always_ priority. So it’s what he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Auston... *sigh* Alrighties, this is the last sort of 'set-up' type chapter, so we can really get into it now. Also I wanted to thank you so much for all of your kudos and comments on the last chapter, they really do mean the world to me :) I hope you liked this one too, and I'll see you wonderful people down in the comments!
> 
> Chapter title is from 'sex' by EDEN (which actually had an extremely large part in inspiring this story and everyone should listen to it because it's incredible [can you tell I'm a massive EDEN/The Eden Project fan yet??])


	3. In the Quiet of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter happens after the Barstool Goalie challenge (we’re just ignoring the timeline here). The link is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ylzY4KVMIQ
> 
> It’s not absolutely _essential_ that you watch it; all you really have to know is the guy who runs it is kinda an asshole to everyone (but especially Mitch). It’s quite something to see though, especially watching Auston  & Marty’s faces at the end. Anyway. Enjoy the chapter either way :)

“What a fucking entitled, self-absorbed, skilless, smug dickbag,” Marty curses, letting the door swing shut behind them to the windy, wintery outside, a scowl settling on his face.

Mitch raises an eyebrow, presumably at the creativity before shaking his head once and zipping up his jacket, blinking at the unusually blinding sun.

Auston, along with Mitch and Marty just finished up doing the Barstool Goalie challenge they somehow got roped into doing, and it went… _well_. Probably not as smoothly as it could’ve.

“I mean, we knew going in that the dude is a prick,” Mitch points out, eternally and infuriatingly positive.

Auston scoffs disgustedly, pulling down his hat and feeling his jaw jump at how tightly it’s clenched. It’s been that way for awhile. “Yeah, well, he lived up to expectations then,” he inputs, trying to settle the fury that he’s mostly managed to keep in during the visit and leading them on the short walk back to Mitch’s apartment, hoping the movement will burn off the fuming energy.

Mitch whips his head around the second he catches up, eyes accusing. “Seriously, Matts? You too?”

Auston rolls his shoulders, feeling a drip of self-consciousness seep in and reminding himself that feeling this level of anger is normal when a good friend tries to get shit on. “He looked like he wanted to publicly humiliate you,” he points out, unimpressed. “Failed, obviously, because you’re clearly better than him at hockey. Still. The guy’s a douche.”

“He tries to humiliate _everyone_ ,” Mitch says slowly, like he’s talking to idiots. “That’s basically his entire selling point. And like you said, I showed him what’s what, so no harm done. Chill out.”

“Not likely,” Marty mutters from Auston’s other side, still looking vaguely murderous.

Mitch throws his hands up in the air in apparent exasperation. “Okay, if anyone should be pissed here, it should be me. And I’m not. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Nope,” Marty grins, popping the p just to be obnoxious. “Sorry Mitchy, but you’ve got a protection squad ready at all times behind you. Deal with it.”

"I don't need protecting," Mitch protests, puffing his chest out defensively with a mock glare.

Marty levels him with an amused stare. "Kid," he says seriously, visibly trying to hold back a smirk, "You've got half the team ready to go to battle to defend your honour, and the other half wanting to punch you in the face. We rotate weekly now."

Auston snorts loudly, and Mitch glares at him.

"Whose side are you on?" he asks hotly.

Auston takes a second to pretend to think deeply before slowly responding, "I dunno, if it's the week of the 23rd then I think I'm in the half that wants to punch you. I'll have to check the Google calendar we've got going."

Marty cackles, sending him a quick fist bump for keeping the gag alive.

“You’re both fucking assholes,” Mitch informs them in a mumble, retreating to the safety of his phone.

The rest of the walk is frigid but prompt, the rest of Auston’s residual anger at the Barstool host dissolving with the easy conversation, and stepping inside the heated building feels vaguely like heaven. He really should be used to Canadian winters by now – and he is. Kind of. But that doesn’t mean he has to like them. And he doesn’t. Give him sweltering hot 100-degree Arizona summer afternoons any day of the week; but this constant frosty blowing air feels like it’s getting underneath his skin and seeping deep inside his bones. _Cold_ he’s used to (he literally spends half his life in an ice rink). But the wind is just plain brutal.

“Why the hell do you choose this arctic wasteland?” Auston mutters as they get inside Mitch’s apartment, trying to shake off the last of the snow from his jacket and shivering a bit at the drastic temperature change.

Mitch grins, throwing a nearby blanket directly at his face and covering him entirely in the soft material that smells way too comfortingly familiar.

“It’s home,” Marty advises him before he even has time to struggle, a smile in his voice as the plucks the blanket from around Auston’s head and robbing him of all its warm and fragrant glory. He feels his hair get mussed into a static disaster as his hat gets pulled along with it, and it’s confirmed when Mitch instantly doubles over laughing at the sight of him, perching on the back of the couch as a brace.

“Holy- shit, why- why is that- so funny?” Mitch gets out between deep gasping breaths, and Auston glares, quickly kicking off his boots and tackling him over the edge of the sofa in retaliation, just barely keeping them from falling off the edge.

“Maybe because it’s not?” he suggests mildly, smirking at the abrupt end to the laughter and Mitch’s half-assed attempt to struggle out of Auston’s grip pressing him into the cushions.

“It’s hilarious,” Mitch objects seriously, but he’s already trying to fight away a demon smile just looking up at Auston’s hair again.

“Should I just leave you two alone?” Marty asks mockingly from the entranceway, and something inside Auston breaks, snapping him back to the actual reality of the position they’re in right now; his body covering Mitch’s, one arm pushing against his chest, the other planted on the armrest to keep their faces too close together for normal company, probably. Eerily similar to how they were not too long ago, honestly, the same time that they-

Auston backs off immediately, scrambling away and feeling his face close off as he presses against the other end of the couch, as far away as he can get, mind racing with memories that are just as quickly being shoved back down.

Mitch, on the other hand, doesn’t blink, throwing a pillow toward Marty’s general direction, tossing a mock-accusatory “Perv,” along with it, grinning like they weren’t just accused of being-

That.

“Only when it comes to Sydney,” Marty corrects with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows, and immediately Mitch gags violently.

“Fuck, too much information dude,” he protests disgustedly. “You’re like my Dad or something, god.”

Marty chuckles at the apparently desired reaction, but when his eyes drift beyond Mitch, his expression dampens slightly. “Matts, you good?” he asks cautiously.

Auston clears his throat, nodding and trying to put on an uncaring expression that probably comes off more like a grimace. "All good," he confirms, and at least his voice has decided to actually show up normally.

Marty cocks his head a bit at his reaction, but thankfully drops it to dive back into the prior conversation. “Speaking of Sydney,” he begins, instantly having to compete with Mitch’s loud protests of “I don’t want to hear it, dude” and raising his voice just to be heard, “She actually just texted and needs me home for some birthday party planning shit. Something about place cards or food selection, I don’t what she’s doing, but apparently it’s now the most important thing in the world that I be there, so I’m gonna head out again.”

Mitch – now finished his objections after realizing the announcement had nothing to do with sex – puts on his best puppy dog face and lets out “But you just got here,” pushing his sad voice to the brink of a whine.

Marty’s face understandably crumbles at the vehement patented irresistible protest, but shakes his head ruefully, taking a step forward to ruffle Mitch’s hair playfully, a grin sneaking back onto his face as his hand is shaken off. “Sorry Mitchy, can’t ignore the girlfriend,” he offers regretfully, “Especially when it involves possible food samples.”

Mitch pouts, but sighs resignedly. “Fine,” he mutters. “Sydney wins this time. Next time we’re going somewhere where your phone has to be turned off.”

Marty snorts, zipping his jacket back up. “We’ll see,” he offers placatingly before grabbing his hat and nodding at Auston lightly. “Later, Matts. Try not to beat up the kid too badly when he doesn’t have anyone here to defend him, eh? We still need him to be our star playmaker out there.”

Auston smirks, ignoring Mitch’s spluttering. “I’ll do my best,” he says casually, internally proud of his even tone. “Tell Sydney to get more of those sausage rolls for the party and I’ll leave him in one piece.”

“Will do,” Marty promises with a laugh, wrapping his scarf around his neck and sneaking out the front door, letting it close slowly with a heavy click.

Mitch sighs loudly, flopping back on the couch so his hair is tickling the bare skin exposed on Auston’s ripped jeans. He looks up pensively, and for a split second, Auston’s worried he’s going to inquire what the momentary freeze earlier was about, but instead he asks, “You hungry?”

Auston swallows, head still tilted down, trying not to remember other times when Mitch has looked at him like this, eyes peering up from underneath his long lashes. “Yeah, I could eat,” he gets out, probably a bit quieter than normal if he’s being honest, a bit gentler too.

Mitch doesn’t move for a moment, searching his face for… something. Maybe he finds it and maybe he doesn’t, but either way he finally nods once, hair brushing teasingly again, and gets up heading for the kitchen.

Auston doesn’t want to admit that he takes a second to collect himself before following him, but maybe he does. Maybe he also sternly reminds himself that just because they’re alone doesn’t mean he can go there, doesn’t mean his mind is allowed to go there _at all_.

Mitch is staring at the fridge when he gets there, shaking his head in dissatisfaction. “I need food,” he comments distractedly, tapping his foot in a quick rhythm.

Auston quickly looks over his shoulder: juice, Gatorade, half-dried strawberries, milk, butter, a little cheese, grape jam, pop, beer, and random condiments. “You really do,” he agrees, raising an eyebrow judgementally.

Mitch turns his head abruptly, and their faces are suddenly a few inches apart. Whether it was accidental or by design Auston doesn’t know, but the wide, startled blue eyes looking into his would seem to suggest the former.

“Order in?” Mitch suggests quietly, and Auston feels the light breath on his lips, closing his eyes briefly to control the swooping in his chest.

“Yeah,” he approves, voice rougher than he’d like, opening his eyes again with an attempted renewal of discipline against unwanted emotion. “Sounds good.”

“Pizza?” Mitch tries, for some reason not moving away.

It’s not in their meal plan, but Auston will do just about anything to get out of this position, ignoring the fact that he could just walk away right now. It would look weird, probably, so that option’s out. “Sure,” he agrees, trying to stop his increasing heartrate. They’re friends. Just friends. Nothing more. Anything more would be wrong. Unnatural. He’s not that person. He can’t be that person.

“Okay,” Mitch says, and it comes out like a whisper. “I’ll order then. I guess. Unless you wanna choose? I really don’t care either way. I’ll have pretty much anything anyway.”

It’s almost like he’s just wasting time so they can stand like this, speaking nonsense until one of them breaks the spell that seems to have descended on the kitchen, almost nose to nose and breathing the same air. There’s an electricity that seem to crackle between them, keeping them paralyzed and losing track of time.

Auston’s supposed to answer the question, but he’s having a hard time remembering what the question was, or remembering why he can’t let his gaze drop down a half-inch like it wants to, for that matter. They’re so caught up in this little space of time, staring at each other and trying to breathe normally, waiting for someone to move, to speak, to do _something_.

A loud buzzer pierces the silence, and it snaps the moment in a shattering crack, like they’ve been dunked unexpectedly in a pool of freezing cold water. Mitch blinks once, twice, and then shuts the fridge door silently, turning to stride to the front hall, and presses a button a split second after the loud buzz rings again.

“Yeah?” he asks, and maybe Auston’s imagining things, but he can almost hear a slight waver.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Marty’s voice says over the speaker.

After a slight pause, Mitch says, “Does Syd not need you after all?”

This time Auston’s certain he’s not hallucinating the edge of disappointment in his tone, hears it louder than the actual words themselves, doesn’t dare to think what it might mean.

“Nah, nah,” Marty hurriedly explains, “She does, I just think I left something up there, can you let me through?”

Mitch nods, like it can be seen through the connection. “Yeah, dude, no worries. Hold on.” He presses another button and a much quieter buzz hums through the room. He still doesn’t move though, staring at the wall like it has the answers he needs. Only the knock at the door seems to shake him out of it, and he steps over to let a red-cheeked Marty back into the apartment.

“Hey, thanks,” he says quickly, scanning the room. “I can’t stay, I got halfway down the street before I realized… Ha!” He leans over and plucks a slip of paper up from behind the coat rack. “There we go. That’s the stupid list Carrick’s making me write for him about the best dog parks in Toronto, I don’t even know why I’m doing it honestly-” He looks up from stuffing the paper in his pocket suddenly, concern and confusion written on his face as he apparently realizes that no one except him had said a word since walking through the door. “Are you two okay?”

 _Always_ , Auston thinks bitterly, but Mitch smiles, a bit smaller than usual, and explains in a long-suffering tone, “It appears that my fridge is unacceptable by the Matthews’ standard, and apparently the Yankee way of thanking someone for offering to buy you pizza is by ‘accidentally’ eating your last pop tart.” He takes a step forward, putting strong, pleading hands on Marty shoulders, apparently deciding to go all in on the complete lie as he begs dramatically, “Take me with you; my great Canadian spirit is getting sucked out of my soul by this giant desert creature who refuses to say thank you twice at the checkout.”

“It’s unnecessary,” Auston finds himself contributing with an air of nonchalance that has come from some magical location he didn’t know existed, shifting against the doorway he’s leaning on between the living room and kitchen. “It just slows down the line.”

Mitch makes a distressed noise before shaking Marty a little, hissing “See?” in a way that would suspiciously over the top coming from anyone but him. “It’s like a disease!”

Marty looks between the two of them as if he’s gauging the authenticity of their reactions before carefully extricating himself from Mitch’s insistent grasp and leaning down conspiratorially. “If it gets bad,” he suggests quietly, but loud enough that his voice carries across the room, “Call Mo. Or better yet, Naz. They’ll straighten him out.”

Auston rolls his eyes at the never-ending commentary on his birthplace, not entirely acting anymore, but feeling a small part of his brain take a sigh of relief at seemingly getting let off the hook.

Mitch takes a step back and crosses his arm. “Fine,” he relents, “But you owe me some quality time with your four-legged beast the next time I come over.”

“Deal,” Marty agrees quickly, taking a quick look at his phone and groaning. “I gotta get out of here before Syd decides to make me sit next to her Father during dinner. I’ll see you idiots at practice, okay?”

“Yup,” Mitch confirms, and Auston echoes with some sort of definite affirmation.

Marty’s out the door at a steady clip with a wave and a goodbye without any further chatter, Mitch locking the door in a practiced motion behind him. The silence creeps back in again, but Auston breaks it before it can get any more oppressing.

“So, pizza?”

Mitch smiles, a bit wider this time, a bit more genuine so that it reaches his eyes, and he bounds over to retrieve his phone from the kitchen counter. He hesitates for a brief second before leaning against the other side of the doorway Auston’s already pressed up against to presumably bring up the menu, their feet brushing together on the threshold. It’s probably stupid for them to crowd close together when there’s a spacious apartment available, but Auston’s not about to open his mouth and potentially make it weird. That, and the proximity feels like it’s slowing his heart down for some reason. He doesn’t overthink it, just rests his head back and breathes easy, waiting for pizza choices.

 

They get it loaded with a whole bunch of stuff; meat and vegetables in probably incredibly odd combinations, a small war occurring over whether or not to include pineapple. Auston is for, and Mitch is “utterly disturbed he’s breathing the same air as a pineapple-pizza person”. Subtle as always. They don’t put it on for the sole reason that they’re at Mitch’s apartment, and for once he’s offering to pay, so Auston concedes for the time being.

They’re back to their comfortable state of normalcy, chirping and shoving and grinning without any implications other than chilling out and having fun. It’s easy, seamless; and when the pizza finally comes and they sit on the couch to watch the Habs-Canucks game (voting for Vancouver of course, because they have a reputation to uphold thank you very much) he doesn’t even notice that they’re sitting so close that Mitch’s tucked up feet are pressing into his thigh. He doesn’t notice when he starts leaning his weight on Mitch’s side, doesn’t notice when Mitch starts reaching over to use his dip because his ran out and their arms brush together unnecessarily, doesn’t notice when there’s a solid weight on his shoulder with soft hairs tickling the skin of his neck for a few short minutes at a time in between stoppages.

Or maybe he does notice, but he doesn’t think anything of it, won’t take that leap to actually consider the actions anything more than what happens between two best friends hanging out and eating dinner while watching the game. That’s all it is. Or at least, that’s all it ever can be.

 

They don’t have sex that night, Auston leaving a little before eleven, but somehow their evening in feels more intimate – more like a cheat – than blind fucking ever could.

xx

When Auston gets back to his apartment, he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling, trying to will himself not to lean over to retrieve his phone from the nightstand and Google “normal behaviour with guy friends”. He’s not sure if he’d be checking to make sure _he_ didn’t overstep or if _Mitch_ was acting weird, but the whole thing is fucking ridiculous anyway. It doesn’t matter. Nothing’s going to happen.

And yet.

Thoughts always seems to swirl and consume in the solitude of night and darkness, and they’re present in full force tonight. On one hand, he feels a deep and immense relief that he and Mitch are still capable of hanging out alone without having sex. On the other hand was a knowledge that even without sex, it still felt somewhat different, like a change in the atmosphere. It was a warm change; subtle, but unmistakably there. Like he was _waiting_ for it to happen. Like _wanted_ it to.

Now that he’s separated himself far enough away from the mind-scrambling powers of Mitch’s presence, Auston can see himself properly, see how he acts without thinking. They’re little, seemingly insignificant things; shit like him asking Mitch to hit the lights because “he had a headache” when all he really wanted was for the darkness to give them some sort of blanketing separation from reality. Or when Auston got cold and tugged the fleece throw Mitch was using to wrap himself up too, despite the fact that it made their arms and shoulders press against each other when he moved in close so that they were both covered. Or when Mitch reached up to wordlessly swipe away an eyelash and Auston didn’t tell him to back off, just buried a shiver and plucked it off Mitch’s finger to flick it away with a tiny smile in thanks.

But that was normal friend stuff, right? Granted, probably not the light thing (when considering the motive), but sharing blankets and eyelash thing; those were fine. Probably. Maybe.

All the remembered interactions from earlier in the day start to pile up as the minutes tick by, all the potential for misunderstandings between the two of them. It’s not like he can text Marns “So you know we’re nothing but really tight friends, right?” because that would no doubt just look really suspicious on his end.

Even now he can practically see Mitch grinning in his mind’s eye, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re overthinking dude,” he’d probably say, flicking him on the forehead for good measure. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Auston would probably tackle him for that, if for no other reason that to try and hide his own growing smile, which, honestly, would probably make him feel better. It’d likely end in laughter and playful shoves, Mitch beaming with those absurdly blue eyes that seem to see right through him, obscured only by messy strands of dark hair falling loose on his face.

It’s an image so vivid that it makes Auston’s chest seize for a moment for reasons he can’t – or won’t – understand. It’s like a reflex he just can’t shake, more powerful than his own strength of will. He sighs frustratedly, scrubbing his face with a hand. Sleep seems utterly impossible at this point in time, his mind bound and determined to keep him thinking.

 _If you can’t sleep,_ he remembers getting lectured by his Mom before he left Scottsdale, _Don’t lay in bed thinking. It’s bad sleep hygiene. Give it a break for awhile and then try again._

So Auston gives up and swings his legs out from under the covers, making his way slowly into the kitchen to make a rare cup of herbal tea. It’s definitely not his first choice, but they have practice in the morning and he doesn’t have time for any insomnia, so yeah, he’s desperate. Freddy swears by the stuff anyway, so he doesn’t feel too stupid taking tentative sips from the mug as he stretches out on the couch.

He’s there for maybe 30 seconds before he can hear his phone go off on the bedside table, a custom vibration. Auston swears quietly and gets up after a short deliberation, padding back with his cup of tea to slip back under the covers and grab his phone.

_Incoming (Marns): Hey, you still up?_

Auston was pretty sure he’d find something like that, because of course; the one person keeping him awake has to be the one texting him.

He gives serious thought to lying, pretending he’s already asleep and shooting off a quick text in the morning with an apology, but he nixes that eventually. There’s nothing wrong with messaging a friend, even this late at night. It’s harmless. And it might actually help.

_Outgoing: Yeah, still awake_

The response is almost instant.

_Incoming (Marns): Dude, what the fuck, I thought you’d be way out by now_

Auston snorts, perching on the side of his bed.

_Outgoing: And yet you still texted_

There’s a much longer gap before the next message, and Auston tries to hide his victorious smile by taking a long sip of tea.

_(Marns): Shut up_

Auston rolls his eyes. All that time, and the only thing Mitch could come up with is “shut up”?

_Outgoing: Damn, so clever. Rocked me hard with that one_

Mitch sends an almost immediate middle finger emoji, and Auston feels an absurd wave of victory wash over again at the lame comeback.

_(Marns): What are you even doing up this late? Or early. Whatevs_

Auston grips the handle of his mug tightly. No way he’s telling the truth to this one. Probably best to not even touch it.

_Outgoing: What are *you* doing up?_

It’s a cop out, but it’ll have to do.

_(Marns): Iunno, man. Can’t sleep. My head won’t stfu for ten seconds._

Auston feels a pang at how they seem to be having the exact same issue only a handful of minutes away from each other. He tries not to guess what Mitch is thinking about, actually debates for a hot second if asking is too personal and decides 100% yes. Plus, he might not want to know the answer. He types a few different approaches before shooting one off.

_Outgoing: I feel you. I’m drinking some herbal tea that tastes like shit but Freddy says it works_

He bites on a nail at the admittance at the beginning of the text, but doesn’t regret it. Mitch is just as clueless about what’s keeping him awake as vice versa.

_(Marns): I could try that I guess, I might have some around here. Thanks for the warning bout the taste tho, ‘preciate that glowing review_

_Outgoing: Just bein honest_

That feels so laughably false that Auston almost snorts again, but compromises with shaking his head a bit in disgust with himself. Full disclosure isn’t exactly his forte when it comes to Mitch these days. He hesitates a second before sending off another.

_Outgoing: You okay btw? Anything wrong?_

It’s awhile before he gets an answer, just long enough that he starts wondering if he pushed too much or poked into something delicate, but finally his phone vibrates again in his lap.

_(Marns): Sorry late reply, found some tea and got a mug. It does taste like cow shit though, ur right_

_(Marns): And yeah, I’m good, thanks :) Just hockey stuff, y’know? Bad night and you second guess everything. It’s fine_

Auston feels his muscles relax again after scanning the texts, his half-asleep brain ceasing its valiant attempt at getting mildly freaked out at the gap in conversation. He remembers their last game the night before last with vague annoyance, a tough and somewhat unfair loss.

_Outgoing: Yeah, honestly idk how Freddy likes this stuff. I already feel more tired though, so I don’t think he’s wrong about that._

_Outgoing: And you’ll be good, shit games happen and ur goal shouldn’t have been overturned anyway. The refs were fuckin blind, I swear, goalie interference means dick-all now_

Mitch quickly sends a few hugging emojis along with an upside down smiley and Auston hides his own real life smile in his mug.

_(Marns): Thanks Matts, seriously, idk why but that seriously makes me feel better_

Auston moves to type back “Me too” automatically before catching himself. The fact that Mitch feeling better instantly makes _him_ feel better too is probably a bit too much sharing to keep up the desired level of normalcy. He sends back a smiling emoji instead and drains the last of his tea.

_Outgoing: Hey, I’m gonna see if I can sleep now, but I’ll pick up you up in the morning, yeah?_

He’s just gotten settled in when his phone goes off again.

_(Marns): Fo sure. Sweet dreams_

Auston stares at the screen for probably way too long, eyes stuck on those two last words. He swallows, reminding himself that they’re probably meant more as a joke than a soft hope he’s reading them as. His brain is already too far gone into sleep-mode to fully process though, which is probably a good thing. He messes with a few different replies before finally sending one off.

_Outgoing: Night Marns_

It’s a safe call, and therefore the right call. Auston tries not to wonder what it’d be like to whisper sweet dreams to someone before drifting off, though, tries not to picture who that person would be. The answer might be too much to contend with.

Sleep mercifully finds him quickly this time, all the thoughts fading away to a dull roar. The last thing he remembers is a fading hope that he won’t remember his dreams when he wakes up. He can’t control them, and he’s got a pretty sure idea where his mind is stuck tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize it took so long to upload this chapter/reply to comments, I've gone and fallen ill so it's been slowing me down. Also, what is this, a chapter without sex in it?! There may be more scattered throughout here, just to mess with you a bit. A relationship is more than sex, after all, especially one as complicated as this... 
> 
> Also, slight topic change, but Auston got injured in the real world and I was (still am) crying, but then Mitch stepped up and had an epic game on Saturday and we beat Boston and I have so many emotions, what the hell. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and thank you once again for your beautiful comments, they're seriously keeping me going <3
> 
> Chapter title is from 'Strange Habit' by July Talk (one of my favourite bands btw, Toronto based and absolutely incredible people who make even more exceptional music).


	4. No One Else Can Break Me Down Like You

5-4. That's the final score. Five fucking four.

Toronto came back from a three-goal deficit in the third period to tie it 4-4, only for Stamkos to swipe the puck right off Auston's stick in the D-zone and shoot a laser past the unsuspecting Freddy in the dying minutes before OT.

He would've preferred a 7-1 blowout where the Leafs did their best to this. He would probably prefer if someone ripped his still-beating heart out of his chest and set it on fire while he watched to knowing he let his whole team down like this.

Babcock chews them out about even getting into the position of being down three goals in the first place and on starting when the game does, and the whole time Auston's waiting for him to bring the final play up and harp him about defensiveness or staying awake or not taking the final time for granted, and it never comes. At least, not until he's about to stride out of the room and turns with disappointed eyes to find Auston’s in a second.

"And Matthews," he comments quietly with a shake of his head, "You're better than that. Fix it."

The whole room feels like it's shrinking and taking all the oxygen along with it. He can feel the looks of his teammates puncturing him like needles all over his skin. But the acidic anger at himself and his lack of performance bubbles stronger than the embarrassment, and his fists clench without him consciously telling them to.

"Look," Mo finally says, standing up with a resigned sigh. "We're _all_ better than the way we played tonight. A loss never rests solely on one person, everyone knows that. So go home, get some sleep, find someone to vent to or hold or whatever the hell you need to do to shake this off. But do it, because we're catching a plane to Vancouver in the morning and we _will_ be ready for the Canucks. You all hear me?"

There's rumbles of agreement from around the room, along with some emphatic and determined nodding.

"Good," Mo confirms firmly. "Don't embarrass me in front of my friends and family in my hometown, because I have a lot of money on the line here, but you didn't get that from me."

"Fucking hell, Mo," Gards mutters affectionately from beside him, but he's grinning, and it's contagious.

The mood lightens considerably at the admission, jabs at Mo's supposed golden morals picking up as people start unlacing skates and taking off pads, smiles slowly coming back to replaces the scowls.

But Auston feels impervious to it all, a dark cloud descending around him and suffocating all the unblemished air. He rips off his pads and skates and heads the showers without a word to anyone, his skin vibrating with dissatisfaction. The team wisely gives him a wide berth.

His mind replays the last few minutes of the game over and over until he could probably sketch a to-scale diagram of the half-dozen ways in which he entirely fucked up. He’s even more short with the press than usual, and he’s pretty sure he glares pointedly at the reporter who asks if he saw Stamkos so close to him before the turnover. The reaction to that question will probably be everywhere on social media, but he can’t be bothered to give two shits, all his energy put toward not throttling whoever gets in his way or punching himself in the face for failing the team. He can still hear the silence that fell over the stands after the deciding goal. It’s always worse losing a nail-biter at home, especially in a city like Toronto where everyone lives and breathes and sleeps and eats hockey; not just the players.

Mitch is waiting for him in his stall when he gets back from interviews, holding Auston’s bag and wordlessly standing up to lead the way to the garage, thankfully knowing that silence is currently as essential as air. One of the best things about Mitch is that he can talk and talk and talk, but he knows Auston well enough to understand that sometimes there’s nothing he can say to fix it, or make a joke of it, or take his mind off it. In those times he’ll just stay close, a quiet reminder that he’s there if he’s needed.

It’s probably a good thing that Auston drove tonight; keeping the car on the road is keeping his mind occupied momentarily on something other than the game. But he sees some fans still milling about outside the stadium and his chest tightens. He sees a car flag for the Leafs on King Street and his breath stops. He sees a guy in a Matthews jersey getting off a streetcar and he wants to hit something, hard. He sees an old, broken hockey stick leaning against a dumpster and thinks about looking down at his own stick just as it’s bumped aside, a second too late, and he feels like he's about to implode.

Sometimes he hates this game, hates how much it means to him, hates how much his own self-worth is wrapped up in his ability to play it well. But it is what it is. Hockey’s in his blood, his lungs, his brain, his soul; for better or worse. This is the worse part.

 _Do whatever the hell you need to do to shake this off_ , Mo had said. Auston doesn’t even know what that is anymore, doesn’t know how to purge this from his system, can’t remove a part of himself that’s infused with what’s keeping him alive. When he was younger he would pick up a girl and go through the motions and pretend like it was fulfilling the need it was supposed to. He can’t do that anymore, for numerous reasons. One, he’s too well-known in this city to walk into a bar and pick up. Two, he doesn’t have the energy to keep up that act. Three, he’s not sure if he’s capable of even remotely enjoying sex with women at this point; his body ruined by the feel of thicker fingers and wider thighs and a flatter chest and a deeper voice. A certain voice. He always knew it would be dangerous to dip his proverbial toe in the water, always knew he probably wouldn’t be able to easily go back.

Maybe he _can’t_ shake this off, maybe he’s meant to just be consumed in the poisonous thoughts catapulting around his skull until he comes out fresh like a fucking butterfly, hopefully with improved defensive skill and awareness. He honestly doesn’t even care anymore, can’t think anymore. He can just drive.

"Do you want to come up?" Mitch asks evenly when they're a few blocks away from his apartment, eyes focused forward, and it's the first thing either of them have said since leaving the ACC.

Something clicks inside Auston’s brain, like a lock slotting into place, a whisper of _that’s it_ , and his heart starts beating faster for a very different reason. It’s going to get messy and he knows it, but he can’t stop it; doesn’t want to. He has to have this, knows that as clear as the stars in the sky. It’s made itself an immediate necessity, and he won’t let himself go as far as fully understanding why, but the second the question passed Mitch’s lips he intuitively understood it had to happen.

Auston doesn't say anything, the anger still wiring his jaw shut, muscles clenched and currently physically incapable of budging. He answers by driving down into the parking garage instead of pulling over out front, holding a hand out wordlessly for the parking pass, which Mitch quickly delivers, apparently anticipating his answer. He finds a spot easily, only a few steps from the elevator, and the way up to the apartment is just as silent outwardly as the trip back from the rink. Inwardly though, Auston's mind is fighting a war between the need to keep this whole situation at a manageable distance and the need to just bury his thoughts until his entire existence is a crackling static. The fight is a loud one – deafening really – but somehow manages to not make a sound outside his body. He wants to scream, not that it would help anything, but the desire is there nonetheless. He just keeps seeing Babcock’s disapproving face, the flash of disappointment from his teammates, the wave of shock through the crowd, the light behind the goal lighting up as Stamkos is smothered in a heap of celebrating Bolts players nearby. 

 

By the time Mitch is unlocking his front door, Auston’s blood is bubbling a million different emotions that he doesn’t want to feel, and he’s tapping his foot quickly against the carpet to try and expel the excess energy.

“Do you want to eat something?” Mitch asks quietly, pushing into the apartment and kicking off his shoes, throwing his coat carelessly over the back of the couch on his way to the kitchen.

Auston drops his coat unceremoniously in the front hall, shedding his suit jacket right after and adding it to the pile. He’s barely hearing the words being spoken to him, focused solely one thing, and one thing alone.

Mitch takes a quick look back when he gets no response, something passing his face for a moment when he mutters “Or we could just get right down to it.” He takes a few steps backwards in the direction of his bedroom as Auston advances, keeping the eye contact steady like it’s a challenge.

They play a mini version of cat and mouse until Auston’s long, determined strides have made up almost all the ground between them, stepping into the dimly lit back hallway and feeling the tension rise to near-suffocating levels. They both freeze in position when Mitch’s back is maybe a foot away from his closed bedroom door, neither of them willing to break their intense gaze to get inside.

“Are we doing this?” Mitch finally demands, blue eyes flaring with defiance. “Or are we just gonna stand here all night and-”

Auston surges forward and slams Mitch's body against the door, hears the breath forced from his chest, but he doesn't stop, doesn't wait, just moves in close and grinds his hips up in a rough twist because _fuck_ opening the door, they don’t need a bed like a fucking couple. He can’t wait anymore; he needs it, needs to remember that he's capable of feeling something other than disappointment and anguish, needs to drown in this sensation for as long as he'll allow himself. He needs to stop thinking.

Mitch shudders at the hard press, rolling his hips back automatically, but he shakes his head, as if he's fighting the urge to give in and let it happen. Mitch gets out his name with audible effort, but Auston's not listening, already deafened by the clatter of overlapping voices yelling accusingly inside his own mind. He squeezes his eyes shut and keeps pressing in, breathing hard.

"Auston, look at me," Mitch demands, voice straining, but he can't, can't stop, can't risk what the look might bring up in him, can't do anything but shake his head once sharply in refusal.

Mitch makes a low sound of frustration, and suddenly he's somehow using all 175 pounds of his weight and taking full advantage of the element of surprise to flip them around, pinning Auston's wrists to the door and staring into him with piercing blue eyes mere centimetres away from his own. Instantly Austin knows that he was right to fear this, knows his face is giving away everything, betraying the carefully constructed walls around how much he reveals to the outside world. He can feel all it's showing; the open vulnerability, the shattered pieces, the desperate pleading; screaming _please give me what I want, I need it, I need this, please._

They stay like that for what feels like hours but is probably more like 30 seconds; entirely frozen except for their rapidly rising and falling chests, waiting for something – anything – to happen, tension clustering in the air like static. The blue eyes staring unrelentingly feels like they're seeing  _through_ him, crawling through his body and examining everything that's inside. And Auston doesn't stop it; just stands against the door and lets himself be known, feeling the rest of reality slowly sink away until it's just the two of them left alone in the world.

Mitch finally breaks the stillness and bridges the distance between them, pressing forward to lock their mouths together, licking in slowly and purposefully, taking control to set the pace the way he wants it. The rhythm is deliberate, hypnotizing, nothing like the rushed and sloppy kisses Auston usually allows himself when they do this. He feels himself drift away on the feeling, body unwinding almost without thought as their tongues brush and tangle in a dance that only they know, dousing the flaming panic like a bucket of water and replacing it with something dangerously intoxicating; an electric current crackling beneath his skin.

It gets dirty quickly, the energy between them building steadily with every nip and suck and wicked twist of the tongue. Mitch's hands have gradually slid teasingly from around his wrists and up his arms to push heatedly against his shoulders as their lips start moving faster, more desperate, less calculated, all pure need; and he smoothly inserts a thigh in between Auston's legs, pushing forward slightly like it’s a dare and a plea all wrapped up in one. Immediately Auston wants to rub against him, no longer able to ignore just how hard he's gotten from their long and heavy make-out session. This shouldn’t even be happening. He never gets this worked up from a kiss. Never. Except-

A low groan escapes him as his hips thrust forward without his permission, apparently tired of waiting for him to make a decision. The sound is absorbed into Mitch's mouth as a deep vibration, and for some reason that knowledge of how thoroughly they're connected makes something burn bright and hot in his veins. The friction – even through their trousers – feels like pure heaven, and he needs more, does it again without thinking, carnal instincts taking over the constant roll of his body before he can even think about cutting this off to get to a flat surface. Auston’s hands press hard into the doorframe, making the wood creak in protest, refusing to allow them the chance to wrap around Mitch's body and pull their bodies close like they keep moving to. They could probably get a better rhythm going if they broke the kiss, but Auston can't lose the gorgeous give and take they have going right now. He’s honest to God thriving on the high it’s bringing; feels the tempo of their now swollen, wet lips integrating itself with the vital ebb and flow of his whole body, as necessary as a heartbeat. It's wrong; so incredibly dangerous and even more temporary. It'll hurt like fucking hell when he has to walk away, but he can't stop, can't pull back, just soaks in everything he can get like he's starving for it because maybe he actually is.

Mitch easily encircles his arms around his neck so he has the proper leverage to meet Auston's thrusts with a brutally perfect grind every time, somehow managing not to lose track of their kiss (thank Christ). It's so much pressure, so much of _them_ ; and by the third ragged press together with the new angle, he knows without a shred of doubt that he's not even going to make it out of his pants tonight.

Doesn't even care.

He just _wants_.

Auston knows there are soft, needy noises suddenly falling from his mouth as it all comes to a crescendo, can't even consider stopping them like he swore he would before he's pressing down, down, down, hard and rough and utterly perfect. He comes with the force of a bullet, biting down on Mitch's lip and screwing his eyes shut tight with the intensity of it, tries to ignore what sounds like a whine vibrating from his throat. The waves just keep coming, flooding his senses, and a small corner of his brain registers gentle fingers stroking through the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck, soothing and grounding, working him through it.

He doesn't want to come down from this, doesn't want to stop shaking, doesn't want to have to go back to ripping himself away from what he craves, doesn't want the world to crash down around him and destroy his little pocket of euphoria. But he does, same as always; and he makes a conscious effort to unlock his jaw, taking everything he's got to not lean in and leave a gentle kiss on Mitch's abused lip as an apology. His legs feel like they might give out, the muscles resembling jelly more than anything, but he sharply instructs them to function as he leans his head back against the door for a second to get his head straight and fully catch his breath again. Auston looks down subtly to see if he needs to stay longer to make sure they both got what they needed, but Mitch's grey dress pants have a telling little wet spot at the front.

The realization hits him like a tonne of bricks: Mitch came just from an incredibly prolonged kiss, a little dirty grinding and simply watching Auston get off on his thigh. That was enough.

 _Oh._ Oh, holy fuck. He needs to get out of here. Now.

Auston swallows hard, pushing down the treacherous emotion developing quickly in his chest with a soft whisper of _shit, that’s amazing_ instead of what should be _shit, that’s disturbing_ ; trying to bury those thoughts in a box somewhere he’ll never be able to unlock. He brings those familiar barriers back up, steeling himself for the necessary task before pulling away from the door, gently shaking off Mitch's hands that are still around his neck, one gone frozen in the tangle of his hair as if he realized too late what he’d done.

It's like tearing off one of his limbs, doing this; walking away, separating their bodies, building the distance between them like a defence. It hurts, physically _hurts_ , and he doesn't dare take a look back, terrified what he might do if he sees Mitch's face again after that display from both of them. Auston heads straight for the bathroom, closing the door gently with a click, cleaning himself up as best he can and trying not to think about why he has to wipe the come off his clothes in the first place. He’s still a bit of a mess by the time he’s finished, but it’ll have to do until he can get home and change.

When he walks out again, brain effectively shut off to the world around him, Mitch is still standing in the doorway, facing toward it, entirely unmoved from when Auston left him like he's stuck in a trance. The urge to walk over and hold him close, press another kiss to his lips as he lays his exhausted body out on the bed to clean off his sticky skin with warm water – it’s _overwhelming_.

And then it's gone. Replaced by an old reflex and self preservation instincts to run, get out, don’t think, just move. Even so, Auston stands a minute longer, wondering recklessly if the need to stay will re-emerge, wondering what he’ll do if it does, but it’s disappeared deep within a labyrinth he doesn’t even begin to understand – let alone escape from. Something like regret explodes on his taste buds; bitter and pungent and unrelenting.

Enough.

“See you for the flight,” he says quietly, his first actual words since leaving the ACC, and he turns on his heel and walks out, the heavy front door slamming shut like a gavel ruling his fate.

xx

He sees Mitch on the plane early the next morning, watches him grin widely and throws over a new bottle of water as he approaches.

“Willy hasn’t played NHL is like, a decade,” he informs Auston with a mixture of horror and disbelief, amusement someone wrapping the tone together in a way that only Mitch can achieve. “Dude, it’s honestly _painful_ to watch him try, come see.”

Auston snorts at his enthusiasm, walking over to see the quick setup they’ve created on the jet where Zach, Brownie, and Marty are all huddled around the screen making exaggerated unimpressed noises with the occasional mocking chirp.

Mitch flicks him on the forehead as soon as he’s within reach, and Auston retaliates with a gentle shove.

“Boys, behave,” Patty calls distractedly from somewhere towards the back of the plane, apparently all-seeing.

“Yes, Dad,” Mitch returns sarcastically over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with a mocking expression.

It’s normal. It’s too normal. Too simple to slip on this skin and fall into place and pretend that less than 12 hours he wasn’t dreaming about fucking-

“Hey, you good?” Mitch asks softly, and Auston blinks, mentally shaking himself and returning a pasted-on smile.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice sounds stronger than he feels. “Everything’s cool.”

It’s not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first breakthrough - however how small - might very well be the hardest. But it's always a necessary step to something bigger. And I think Auston just took it :)
> 
> Also, guess who almost lost the entire data file containing this story??? Yup, yours truly. My laptop is officially fried, so I'm currently using a family member's in the interim until I can purchase a new one. I'm just utterly relieved the story got recovered by my resident computer geek; that panic was _intense_. ANYWAYS. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. All of your comments and kudos really keep me going, so thank you so much for taking the time to let me know what you think, it truly means a lot  <3
> 
> Chapter title is from 'Memories' by Palisades. Song isn't relevant, but is amazing nonetheless. Awesome band.


	5. I'll Fight for You

Viktor Arvidsson’s been on Auston all night. Unnecessary hits, a holding call, a hook that should’ve been a penalty – it’s fucking annoying, honestly. They don’t really even have a major history; nothing he can explain away with being rivals from his time in Juniors or scraps from previous season… Toronto only plays Nashville twice a year. It’s starting to go above and beyond when an offensive player is told to be an annoyance to a certain opponent like Naz often is with McDavid. It’s inexplicable and irritating and at this point there’s nothing to be done about it. The game’s still going in the Leafs favour 3-1 through the 2nd period though, so he’s dealing.

At least he _was_ dealing, until he got blindsided by an unknown but solid body checking him clean into the boards during a lengthy shift, long after the puck has left his stick. Auston’s helmet hits the glass and he goes down with an explosion of pain blossoming throughout his whole body. The next thing he knows he’s on the ice on his hands and knees with the wind knocked out of him and he doesn’t hear a whistle signalling a penalty. The crowd is absolutely losing it, screaming things like “boarding” and “interference” and other things that are absolutely unintelligible under the sheer number of indignant yells. Auston tries to gets up, the instinct to move and get playing again implanted so deep in his brain it’ll probably never leave, but he only gets half-way up before slipping back down, heaving for oxygen.

Finally, a whistle blows and Willy is at his side in two seconds flat, kneeling down beside him and putting a tentative hand on his back.

“You okay?” he asks over the chaos, sounding worried. “Is it bad? You need a trainer?”

“I’m good,” Auston wheezes, and he doesn’t think he’s lying, the pain in his limbs and ribs all down to a dull ache. “Just need air. Help me up.”

He struggles to his feet again, Willy lifting one side with Zach hovering concernedly nearby. His knees and ankles are sore but manageable, and he twists his neck and tenses muscles to make sure he’s actually good to go. His chest has stopped rising and falling at such a ridiculous rate, but his lungs still feel raw and sapped. Nonetheless, he skates to the bench mostly by himself, a supporting roar from the crowd helping him along. The trainer’s at his side the second his ass hits the bench, but Auston waves him off, grabbing a water bottle instead and taking a long drink. By the time he’s gotten through a few sets of breathing exercises that he was taught when starting professional athletics, the inhalations thankfully don’t hurt anymore. Honestly his head is what’s starting to pound more than anything, but that’s likely because of Babcock’s incessant screaming with the ref currently camped out in front of the Toronto bench, a few of his teammates chiming in heatedly as well.

Apparently there’s still no penalty on the hit.

Auston shakes his head in disgust but keeps his mouth shut. The monitor catches his eye and he watches Arvidsson (completely illegally) plowing him into the boards, watches his own body fall hard onto the ice, watches his teammates look like they want to commit murder. His first thought is _of course it was Arvidsson,_ followed closely by another shooting pain to his chest of a different kind when he sees Mitch’s reaction to the hit. The rest of the team looks absolutely furious, but Mitch’s face shows absolute horror, almost panic. Auston’s head pops up to look around the bench for him, but the number 16 can’t be found. Finally he thinks to look onto the ice and finds Mitch having a serious looking conversation with a linesman, his face hard and jaw tight. He looks up from the conversation, feeling a gaze, and his eyes widen when he sees Auston looking, immediately cutting the talk short and moving to skate over at a swift pace.

Of course that’s the moment when the ref decides he’s had enough of Babcock’s commentary (i.e. abuse) and blows the whistle to congregate the players again. Babcock curses loudly and pats Auston once strongly on the shoulder in support before calling “Naz! Your group!”

Mitch stops short, not three feet from the bench, and visibly has to work not to roll his eyes in frustration or flat out ask to go later. He exhales loudly and shoots Auston a meaningful look of _Don’t do anything stupid like die,_ skating quickly out into position by centre ice.

After the puck drops (Naz wins the draw cleanly), Willy gently leans over, carefully looking him over. “You sure you’re okay?” he presses, eyes earnest.

Auston nods tersely, and he knows it’s a good sign that nothing feels like it’s spinning when he does. “Yeah,” he says. “Just knocked the wind out of me is all. Stupid fucking call, but whatever.”

Willy scoffs, unimpressed. “Ridiculous,” he agrees in distain. “We’ve gotten taken down for way less brutal hits than that before. Plus-”

Suddenly there’s an absolute uproar from the crowd and the bench stands up around him and Willy, banging their sticks and screaming.

“Yeah, Mitchy!” Marty calls, and Auston’s heart stops and he shoots up as well, pushing a bit so he can get a good look at what’s going on.

Right there on the ice, down by the Pred’s net is Mitch dropping his gloves with someone against the boards and looking ready explode on impact.

And- Here’s the thing: Mitch doesn’t fight.

As in, like, _ever_.

The only time Auston’s seen him get involved physically like this was during a scuffle with the Sabres when Auston got into it with Ristolainen and Mitch got in the middle of-

No. Oh, _fuck_ no.

“Who is that?” Auston demands from Marty, heart kicking into overdrive when the bright yellow jersey is too pulled up to see the name. “Who’s he fighting?”

Marty pries his eyes away from a split second to give Auston a blistering look. “Who do you think?” he asks bluntly, but a smirk is already breaking through the harsh expression. “You’ve got his back, he’s got yours.”

Auston wants to hit something. Some _one_ , if he’s being more accurate. There’s a wild kick of adrenaline mixing dangerously with a feeling of dread starting to rip through his veins, and he leans over the boards to get a better look, nervous energy thrumming through his body. The two players are locked in position, both with their jerseys tugged half off. But then Arvidsson abruptly winds back an arm and connects square with Mitch’s jaw.

It’s not a strong hit, but the crowd reacts in the same way Auston’s stomach dips. If Mitch gets hurt because of his stupid rivalry all night with the Swede, then so help him he might snap every stick in the ACC. He wants to out there helping, fighting, prying Mitch away to some place that’s more hockey _skills_ than hockey _physicality_.

Arvidsson visibly yells something with an obnoxious grin on his face, and whatever he says, it was the wrong thing. Mitch seems to snap, gritting his teeth and wriggling out of Arvidsson’s grasp long enough to get in a strong uppercut, following immediately with a few less defined but still very real hits to his upper body. The fans and the bench go absolutely insane, screaming and chanting, and Auston’s pretty sure he’s forgotten what breathing feels like.

The Pred’s winger is noticeably less impressed, regaining his balance quick enough to get a glancing blow to the side of Mitch’s face before he can block it. It doesn’t look that nasty, but Mitch recoils like it’s one of the worst hits he’s taken the whole fight, and the air seems to be temporarily sucked out of the arena. Arvidsson doesn’t back off entirely, but he removes the one hand he’s got on the back of Mitch’s jersey smugly, and that proves to be the fatal mistake.

Mitch whips around with eyes blazing and uses the momentum to toss a nasty right hook and utilize every pound of his body weight to awkwardly force them both down to the ice, the volume in the building reaching deafening levels. It’s an unapologetically dirty hit, but it’s incredibly effective, and Auston feels his mouth drop a little bit in shock.

“I taught him that!” Marty calls happily, nudging Auston in the ribs, but his voice and the cheers and everything else in the arena sounds muted to his ears.

It doesn’t last long after that, the refs getting involved and pulling the two struggling bodies apart, but Mitch just keeps yelling and gesturing, and from what can be heard from the bench… sufficed to say the words aren’t friendly. At all. The screaming match lasts all the way to the penalty box, where Mitch finally seems to give it up, tossing his stick to the side and plopping down on the bench shaking his head angrily.

“What the fuck,” Auston whispers, mostly to himself, staring at the box in wonder.

“Dude, he fucking won!” Willy cheers, poking him in the hip. “Mitchy actually won a fight!”

“Yeah,” Auston agrees, still slightly out of it and mostly in shock. _For me_ , he doesn’t add. _He won a fight for_ me.

“Matty, you okay?” Willy asks, a little less excited. “This is a good thing, yeah?”

Auston blinks, trying to get through the fog of swirling emotion, but he can’t drag his gaze away from the penalty box where Mitch is clearly watching the replay. Auston doesn’t need to watch the play by play again, the memory burned permanently into his mind. He just keeps his direction steady, the only one left standing on the bench, waiting for something he doesn’t know why he needs. Finally, Mitch looks away from the monitor, still stoney-faced, and glances toward the bench.

Auston knows exactly the moment when their eyes meet, because the scowl on Mitch’s face seems to lift an infinitesimal bit, the visibly tight muscles in his shoulder loosening up. For some reason Auston lips start curling up, because _Mitch just won his first fight_ , and whatever else the hell is going on, yeah, that’s kind of ginormous deal. Mitch starts mirroring him, consciously or unconsciously he doesn’t know, but before long they’re both on opposite sides of rink just grinning stupidly at each other, trying with everything they can not to start laughing over a situation that isn’t at all remotely funny.

A whistle breaks their unseen link of happiness that they’re both feeding off of, and Auston realizes that play is about to be called back in. He snaps his head to the side to make sure his line isn’t up, but Willy’s gone off to chatter with Zach to his left, and the spots that were occupying the fourth line have vacated. He sits down again, feeling a bit dumb to have been standing for so long (God knows what the media will do with that), and checks the tape on his stick if for no other reason than to do something with his hands. He chances another look toward the box, but Mitch is dutifully watching the game, a tiny smile still gracing his lips like he’s hiding a wonderful secret.

Auston tries to refocus too, shifting his gaze to the unfolding offensive play moving towards Freddy and getting back into hockey headspace. It doesn’t take long; he’s spent his whole life finding that zone, and before long Auston’s jumping back over the boards to grab the puck on a giveaway, racing past the penalty box with no other thought except on how to score.

When Mitch gets out of the box, maybe Auston shuffles positions of the bench so he can sit beside him. Maybe he gives him an obvious nudge with his side and shoots him another grin. Maybe Mitch pokes him gently in the side of the head with his glove with an expression that’s probably almost warm enough to melt the ice of the rink. And maybe they stay like that, close and happy and touching unnecessarily until one of them gets called out to play, not saying anything at all.

Maybe they don’t need to speak to say something.

xx

The team heads out after a hard-earned win (and to celebrate Mitch’s fight); Auston, Mitch, Marty, Willy, Kappy, Brownie, Freddie, Mo and Gards all tagging along to a bar where they can get a semi-private space to avoid the wonderful – but persistent and abundant – Toronto fanbase who beg for autographs and photos. They settle in and order a round, the mood light and celebratory; because really, that’s the only acceptable response after beating the Preds in OT. Auston picked up the GWG, Mitch finished with 2 assists, a won fight and a goal-saving defensive play, Mo hit number 2 for most points for a D-man in the league, and with state of the Atlantic division, the Leafs have virtually solidified their place in the playoffs. Sufficed to say, it’s a good time all around.

That is, of course, until the topic of old teammates comes up. It starts out easy, Auston reminiscing about what hell Tkachuk raised on Team USA, everyone laughing at Mitch’s stories about hating Stromer during early days in the OHL, Kappy and Willy and Brownie trying to tell stories about their time in the Marlies but mostly dissolving into unintelligible giggles, and Marty excitedly remembering when he met Luke Bryan with Casey Cizikas at a concert during his time with New York.

“So basically,” Mo summarizes with a giant grin, after they’ve chirped Marty to death about his music choices (Gards also loyally defending country), “All of your old teammates have been angels and you adore them.”

Protests erupt instantly from around the table, Mitch asking if Mo has ever met Stromer “because he’s basically an smug asshole with unlimited energy” (apparently not realizing that he could, in a way, be describing himself in a lot of people’s eyes), and Auston vehemently reminding the table that Tkachuk speared Marty not too long ago.

Gards saves Mo from more objections about the perfect morality of secretly cherished past teammates by throwing up his hands and trying to bring the group down to a dull roar with hushing motions, eventually achieving his goal. “Okay,” he starts, once he actually has a chance of being heard, “Hasn’t _anyone_ had like a legitimately horrible liney? Like, people were drawing straws to see who sat next to them on the 6-hour flight horrible?”

“Nobody draws straws anymore dude,” Willy informs him happily, taking a deep sip from his second beer of the night.

“You know what I mean,” Gards retorts, glaring at him good-naturedly. “I’m not that old.”

Kappy explodes in a short fit of giggles at the statement, which immediately sets Willy off too, Mitch just barely holding in his laughter, shaking slightly against Auston’s side. Gards opens his mouth to respond with narrowed eyes and a smile threatening his faux-annoyed demeanour, but Mo chimes in before that pointless discussion can take off.

“Freddie, weren’t you with the Ducks for awhile? What about Ryan Getzlaf? I’ve heard stories there, but I don’t really know the guy.”

“Didn’t he get in trouble for something recently?” Marty asks curiously, tipping his glass to down the last swallow.

Auston’s brain grinds to a halt, and he can feel Mitch going stiff beside him. Apparently they both remember why the Duck’s Center was making headlines – and it wasn’t for his hockey.

“Yeah, I know I saw something,” Brownie agrees, furrowing his brow before the answer apparently comes to him with an expression of realization. “Wait, wasn’t he the guy who got caught on camera using that slur when he was sent to the box during the playoffs? Y’know, F-A-”

“We know the word,” Gards snaps, cutting him off with a sharp glare.

“Shit, that was it,” Marty says, shaking his head. “I remember that now. People in the organization were making noise about him hardly ever using the word before, like it was the first time he said it but he got caught on camera at the wrong time. Not that it excuses it, but-”

“It wasn’t the first time,” Freddie mutters into his beer, barely audible over the music, a storm cloud settling around him.

“Wait, you heard him say it more?” Willy asks loudly with wide eyes, because clearly he has no concept of social cues or personal boundaries.

Freddie takes a long drink and swallows slowly before carefully choosing his words. “It wasn’t uncommon. He seemed to enjoy making people uncomfortable. If two guys hugged too long or whatever; stuff like that.”

“I thought his whole defense to the press was that he didn’t use the word, y’know… Like what it was made for,” Kappy comments, gesturing wildly as he stumbles over the proper sentence construction. “Or, like, even in reference to gay people at all.”

“Yeah, he said he didn’t mean it to be homophobic or something,” Willy confirms with an earnest nod, backing up his best friend and roommate. “Which doesn’t even make sense,” he adds as a mumbled afterthought, “but whatever.”

Freddie levels them both with a look. “He lied,” he provides bluntly.

“Fucking asshole,” Mitch mutters under his breath venomously, and Auston tries not to jump when he speaks. He feels paralyzed, terrified to protest too much or say something telling, revealing everything. He's caught between the urge to go with crowd and be safe by saying something disparaging too, but the words accepting that way of life are stuck in his throat, refusing to budge. How can he even say anything like that when the things he calls himself are almost the same kinds of abuse?

Marty whistles. “So you’re saying the coach probably knew, the staff likely knew, his teammates all knew, the organization might have gotten wind of it, and _still_ nothing happened when he was caught on live TV?”

Freddie raises and lowers his eyebrows quickly with a grimace in silent confirmation before adding, “The coaching staff didn’t care in the time I was there. I haven’t talked with him since I came to Toronto, but he always created an atmosphere where if you called him on it, that was pretty much the same as admitting to be gay. No one wanted to go there. He’s the Captain of the team, so I guess the league went easy on him, and the coach isn’t exactly in a position to ask for a larger punishment. So he got off easy.”

There’s a silence around the table, a somber tone descending around them.

“Well that’s _bullshit_ ,” Mo states casually, but his eyes are pure fire.

“Seconded,” Gards chimes in, an unimpressed expression settling hard lines on his face.

“If we ever hear you rookies say crap like that then I swear to God I’ll drop the gloves on my own teammate in the next game,” Marty threatens, trying to make eye contact with all of them. “No mercy.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Brownie asks, looking genuinely offended, “Have you met us before? You think we’d spout shit like that? To our friends?”

Mo leans back in his seat and gives him an appraising look. “I knew you guys were a good bunch,” he muses with a smile.

Brownie snorts a laugh, and Kappy and Willy immediately start making over the top “Awwww” noises, overlapping Mo’s protesting “Okay, okay, enough” that is promptly falling on deaf ears.

Auston feels Mitch gently place a hand on his thigh, and he shoots a panicked glance over, the fear of someone seeing rising inside him like an active volcano. Mitch looks back evenly, calmly leading his gaze over to where Auston is strangling his glass so hard it’s starting to tremble. He loosens his grip, not entirely aware that he was using so much strength in the first place; the topic of conversation a breeding ground for tension. Mitch keeps their eyes locked, slowly stroking his thumb a few times over top Auston’s jeans, and exhales deeply as if to silently remind him _breathe._

He does, inhaling and bringing air into his lungs, realizing the relief his body is feeling is probably because he’s been a few steps away from proper oxygen intake for a while now. The breath out is easy, the release triggering the resuming of a familiar pattern that usually takes place without a second thought. Mitch smiles a bit, careful, like he’s not sure how much he’s allowed to show when they get personal in this way, but really, really wants to display how happy he is that he helped. He raises his eyebrows as if to ask “You good?” and Auston gives a subtle nod back, adding a quick smile of thanks before he darts his gaze away, still paranoid about being caught staring too deeply into a teammate’s eyes.

Mitch’s hand disappears from his thigh a moment later, and the spot where it was resting feels cold.

xx

The beer helps a lot with recovering from the momentary dip in atmosphere; especially in the doses Auston and the team have taken them in. A few pints down for everyone and the mood is light, the smiles are plentiful, laughter is a given, and everything is fucking hilarious. Auston’s muscles have loosened considerably, and he’s leaning into Mitch’s side when they start giggling over inside jokes without the voices in his head chastising him. They shove each other too, grabbing and poking and being generally overly tactile. It takes awhile for him to realize that maybe Mitch feels the same spark whenever they touch too.

Willy comes back from the washroom with Kappy in tow, and both have a ridiculous grin on their face that’s breeding mischievousness.

“Everybody follow!” Willy demands happily, waving his arms like someone at an airport to corral them out of their private booth, Kappy dancing happily behind him with what clearly is a mix of inebriated excitement and excess energy.

The direction is met with exaggerated moans and protests, but none of them can deny the Scandinavian pair much of anything, so before long everyone is clustered together and following them deeper into the venue.

“Where are we going?” Mitch calls impatiently, bouncing a bit in place when the group doesn’t move fast enough for his liking.

“Ah ah,” Willy scolds, turning his head with waggling eyebrows. “You’ll see.”

“Do we even have permission to be back here?” Mo asks, far too sensibly, as they turn around a corner into a darkened room.

“ _Joo_ , I asked,” Kappy reassures with a roll of his eyes. “We got special allowance.”

Willy stops abruptly, causing a chain reaction of bumping so that Auston ends up half on top of Mitch, hands shooting to grasp his hips without thinking to try and avoid falling entirely. Mitch stands firm, seemingly unfazed, turning slightly to help Auston regain his balance, his expression lost in the darkness of the room.

Suddenly the lights snap on and everyone collectively groans at the change in brightness, Willy and Kappy cackling madly at them all, clearly prepared for the switch. When Auston blinks enough times that his eyes aren’t watering, his lips start turning upwards the second he registers where they’ve been led.

It’s an arcade room. A small one, but definitely solid enough to be an unexpectedly awesome find. There are a couple of vintage packman machine pushed up next to a knock-off Dance Dance Revolution on the far side of the room, a claw machine and a baseball thrower on the other. A decent sized air-hockey table sits in the centre, the pièce de résistance.

“How did you even find-” Brownie starts, looking around with wide eyes.

“This one wanders when he’s drunk,” Willy says affectionately, ruffling an unmistakeably blushing Kappy’s blond hair.

“Wander more often,” Marty encourages in awe, looking vaguely like a kid in a candy store.

Willy snorts, seemingly in agreement. “They usually use it for parties but they said we can use it for a bit if we want.”

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Mitch declares emphatically, pushing to the front of the group to get a better look, practically vibrating. “We want!”

Similar noises of excitement erupt from the group, and they disperse to whatever game catches their eye. Auston follows Mitch purely on instinct to one of the packman machines, leaning over his shoulder and offering unhelpful commentary in between bouts of laughter at the number of times he gets killed.

“It’s been a fucking minute since I’ve last played, okay?” Mitch snaps, but he’s grinning despite losing two of his lives in record time, glancing over his shoulder with sparkling eyes. “Like you could do any better with your reflexes after throwing back a few.”

That challenge inevitably turns into an impromptu mini-tournament (in which Auston wins handily thank you very much), before Mitch eventually rage quits in a huff and demands they move on to something else. They take a second to look around; Brownie is giving a biased play-by-play while Freddy and Mo face off at ice hockey, Kappy and Willy are busy looking like idiots on Dance Dance Revolution (because where else would they be), and Gards and Marty are losing quarter after quarter on the claw machine, evidentially trying to win a certain stuffed animal in the large prize category for their wife and girlfriend.

“You know, I used to play baseball,” Auston offers with a meaningful glance over to the baseball thrower. “I could probably beat you at that too.”

“Oh, you’re fucking on,” Mitch immediately agrees, heading straight to the other side of the room. “But I’ll have you know that Stro told me my form was beautiful when we went to Rogers Centre.”

Auston snorts, poking Mitch’s bicep with a grin. “He said that because he assumed you knew what sarcasm was,” he offers smugly.

Mitch flips him the middle finger, unable to get his mouth to settle into something even remotely resembling anger as they come up on the game.

It looks simple enough. When Auston slips in a quarter from his rapidly dwindling supply, 5 baseballs come down from a slot to be thrown into a large square with netting and padding at the back. The goal is speed. In a plexiglass box attached to the right side of the machine is a ridiculously massive blue and white Toronto Blue Jays teddy bear to be released in the event of a win.

“How the hell do you even beat this thing?” Auston wonders curiously, eyebrows furrowing.

Mitch leans into him and nods up to the now flashing high score display at the top of the game, numbers fluctuating to finally decide on a readout.

HIGH SCORE: 62 mph.

Mitch whistles, long and low.

“Fuck,” Auston agrees, impressed.

Mitch lets out a smug laugh. “Yeah, not so confident now, are you?” he teases.

Auston shoots him a pointed glare, shoving his best friend off of him a little and rolling his shoulder to do some quick warmups he remembers from his days on the baseball diamond.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Mitch contributes mockingly, but there’s just enough sincerity in his expression that Auston can’t help but smirk.

He hasn’t tried to seriously throw a baseball since he and Mitch visited Rogers Centre, and probably a few years prior to that. Even so, he used to have lighting speed, and it’s not like he isn’t in top physical shape now.

He picks up a baseball and takes a step back, the competitiveness he’s always had racing through his veins kicking up his adrenaline. He finds the grip he wants, one that reminds him of the wicked fastball he used to throw, winds up, and releases with a quiet release of air.

51 mph.

Mitch gapes. “Holy fucking-”

“Something you wanna add?” Auston adds obnoxiously, turning to fold his arms across his chest with eyebrows raised.

Mitch’s face immediately shuts down, eyes narrowing with the snide taunt. “Yeah,” he points out stubbornly, folding his arms as well. “You didn’t beat it. Don’t know what you’re so cocky about.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you wanna give it a go?” Auston asks, holding out a baseball with a smug expression.

Mitch contemplates it for a brief moment before grabbing the baseball and doing a few quick warm ups of his own. Auston stands by and watches amusedly, knowing full well that while Mitch can skate circles around pretty much any NHL player, he’s never spent a second in semi-professional baseball.

Mitch takes a deep breath and winds up, releasing a little awkwardly, but with better form than Auston expected.

39 mph.

“Not bad,” Auston says, actually sincere, but Mitch just sends him a withering glare and tells him to shut up.

Auston’s next throw is 52 mph, the fourth ball 56 mph. The old rhythm is starting to come back to him now, his muscles warming up for the game that actually isn’t, and he’s getting just close enough that he’s really starting to want to win.

Mitch has gotten into it too, rubbing Auston’s shoulders in between pitches and giving him impromptu pep talks like they’re in the playoffs. All it’s doing is making him have to shove down fits of laughter at Mitch’s faux serious do-or-die tone, but his muscles are relaxing under the touch, his chest jumping to make them succeed.

His final pitch hits 59 mph and they both whoop loudly, high fiving, long forgetting where they are and who they’re with. It doesn’t even matter. The quest is on and the directing call from Mo to try and keep it down effectively falls on deaf ears.

The next round of pitches hover around the same 59 mph range, the final ball hitting 60 mph.

“You can do this,” Mitch encourages, both hands on Auston’s shoulders and blue eyes managing to twinkle even as they’re deadly serious. His hands slip upwards for thumbs to rub soothing lines into the bare skin of his neck; once, twice, again. “I believe in you.”

At that moment, Auston’s pretty sure he could level a fucking building, his heart pounding so fast in his chest and the alcohol shooting reckless confidence through his veins.

They put the last quarter they have between them into the machine and Auston takes a deep breath, trying to centre the energy.

61 mph. So close.

61 mph. Again.

62 mph.

“Auston,” Mitch whispers, like he’s scared to break the flow. “Matts, you’re almost there. Just one faster. You can get there.”

62 mph. Come fucking _on_.

Auston takes a step back and works the ball in hand, closing his eyes and visualizing that LCD screen reading the numbers he wants. One last chance. He steps back into his spot and opens his eyes, feels Mitch’s presence like an extra jolt of electricity. He winds up, exhales. Releases.

63 mph.

They both yell, the sound mixing with a red light streaming through the room and a muffled siren emanating from the machine. Mitch somehow ends up in his arms and Auston spins him around once like a fucking child, both of them laughing uncontrollably. Most of the team has joined them now, grinning and happily mocking their ridiculous display, and he can’t even be bother to care what it might look like when for some ludicrous reason it feels like they just won against the world.

It takes Auston a minute before he realizes there’s a giant teddy bear now resting on the ground to be taken. He steps away to grab it from the floor while Mitch enthusiastically gives an overly-detailed play-by-play of how it all went down, exaggerating obviously, but no one can bear to break the sheer stream of euphoria he’s emanating to correct him on details.

 

Unfortunately, all the noise means they’re gently asked to call it a night by management, but most of them are ready to get home anyway, pairing off into Ubers by housing closeness. He and Mitch grab one as per usual, both still hyped up and barely able to sit still as they manage to fit the giant teddy bear – named Matty, _apparently_ – into the back seat with them.

They chatter about nothing and everything as they pull out onto the night, slowly coming down from it all, still not able to make themselves stay very far apart from each other after all the excitement.

“Where are you even gonna put him?” Mitch eventually asks with a grin, nodding at Matty, who Mitch demanded sit next to him, clearly already attached to the stuffie.

Auston snorts, shaking his head, lips turning upward as an idea forms in his head. “I think,” he says slowly, looking out the front window, “That he’d look pretty sweet next to the Playstation in your living room.”

There’s a beat of silence before Mitch bursts out, “Wait _really_?” grabbing Auston’s arm with wide eyes that make his stomach flip. “You’re giving Matty to me? Because even if this is some sort of joint custody thing, I’m down for that, and you _know_ I’ll take care of him-”

“I’m giving him to you,” Auston clarifies, trying to hide the amusement and failing miserably. “So chill out and breathe before you bust a lung.”

Mitch stares at him with a shocked smile on his face, letting out an incredulous laugh. “Dude, just… Thank you. He’ll remind me of tonight every time I see it. Good memories.”

Auston supresses the urge to run away with the seriousness slipping into the previously light atmosphere in the car, offering his own (smaller) smile back. “I mean you did punch a guy in the face for me earlier, so.”

Mitch’s face does a weird thing, shifting to an indistinguishable expression just long enough that Auston wants to kick himself for drinking enough that words are falling out of his mouth without the proper planning of their impact.

“I mean, it didn’t have to be for me, personally,” he backtracks quickly, looking away. “Like, for the team and everything. Or just ‘cause Arvidsson’s a dickbag, that’s a good reason too-”

“No, no,” Mitch interrupts, examining a loose thread on his coat. “It was for you. What he did to you, I mean.”

Auston swallows, wondering what conversation he just got himself into. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Then, thanks, I guess. You know you didn’t have to do that-”

“Yes I did,” Mitch inturrupts again, and his voice is so unexpectedly hard that Auston’s head shoots over. Mitch’s face has gone tense, jaw tight, eyes flashing like he’s reliving the moment.

“Are you okay?” Auston asks carefully after a too-long moment of silence.

Mitch blinks, visibly coming back to himself as he takes in a breath. “That’s what I meant to ask _you_ ,” he finally says, turning his gaze.

“I’m completely fine,” Auston replies automatically, and it’s not a lie. At least physically. “He just knocked the wind out of me is all.”

But Mitch shakes his head before he’s even done talking. “I meant about what happened during drinks. About Getzlaf.”

Auston freezes, a familiar feeling of barely-controlled panic creeping up on him. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” he challenges, not fully able to look him in the eye.

Mitch sighs so quietly it’s almost non-existent before pressing “For the exact same reason I wasn’t. Because I’m the type of person he targets.”

It’s the first time it’s ever been said out loud. Auston knew this, he _had to_ with everything that’s happened. But for some reason it’s something else to actually hear verbalized.

“I don’t expect you to say anything, or admit anything or some shit,” Mitch continues patiently, and Auston was starting to wonder. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright, that it didn’t get to you too much. I saw how you reacted.”

Auston considers lying. Saying nothing also seems like an admittance of some kind. He can't win, doesn't know what winning is anymore. It's always been hiding, but lately that hasn't felt like the same prize that it used to.

“You helped,” he finally says, looking away. “I’m fine.”

“Are you ever _not_ fine?” Mitch asks testily, snapping a little. “Don’t you ever feel like everything is falling apart, or get that sinking emotion like the ground has disappeared? Anything like that? _Ever_?”

Auston closes his eyes, almost laughing bitterly at how acutely he knows those feelings. “Yes,” he whispers, shocked as Mitch looks to hear the word coming out of his mouth. The answer just happened.

“When?” Mitch murmurs, turning in his seat to try and catch his eye. “When do you feel like that?”

There are a million answers to that question, countless opportunities where his world felt like it was ripping apart at the seams or the floor was going to swallow him up. He can only find the strength to admit one of them.

“Earlier today. When I first saw you fighting Arvidsson.”

Mitch’s expression instantly softens, lips betraying the beginnings of a smile. “Aus,” he says quietly. “Dude, I’m okay. I’m not that breakable.”

Auston scoffs without thinking, and Mitch gives him a glare.

“Yeah, I get I don’t fight like Marty does, but it was my choice. I wanted to and I knew I could handle it… Or at least I thought I could at the time. Getting that level of pissed makes you wanna do something stupid, y’know?”

Auston makes himself look up, the memory of their shared grins from across the rink lighting up inside his mind. Mitch’s blue eyes are so much closer now, his body open and face searching. Auston can’t deny him; not now, not ever, probably.

“Yeah,” he responds, tone hushed. “Yeah, I know.”

They look at each other wordlessly with the same meaningful gaze until the car stops moving as they reach Mitch’s apartment, the driver snapping the spell as he apologizes while stepping out to make an urgent personal call.

There’s an odd atmosphere in the air, like neither one of them want to say goodbye, but are simultaneously too exhausted to even think about anything else. But the pull to be close is still strong, the constant energy passing between them rising. In the light of the streetlights Auston can see a deep bruise slowly developing under the shadow of Mitch’s left eye, too pronounced to be leftover from a poor night of sleep. The leftover alcohol in his blood makes him reckless, and he reaches up, gently tracing the arc with a finger.

“You’re getting a black eye,” he informs, and his voice is definitely softer than he had intended.

Mitch’s lips turn slowly into a grin with the careful touch that lingers too long, and his eyes dart quickly over to where the driver is still standing outside before abruptly tugging roughly on Auston’s shirt and pulling him in, their mouths slotting together without even trying.

It’s messy and rushed and unexpected, but it sends a bolt of electricity down to Auston’s core, his body responding before he even has a chance to process how utterly dangerous this is, all the many ways in could end in disaster. But when Mitch sighs into the kiss like he’s been waiting for this all night, Auston’s powerless to do anything except hold on and slide their tongues together like he hasn’t been able to stop craving since the moment they last parted.

It feels like it lasts longer than it probably does, Auston hanging onto each second and trying to draw out what he knows will be a fleeting moment before his brain catches up and ruins it. But it’s stunning while it lasts.

Mitch’s lips curve into another smile as he pulls away, lingering shamelessly close as he whispers “A black eye was worth it,” the air from his breath tickling Auston’s face.

And then he’s gone, opening the car door and escaping into the cold night air with the enormous teddy bear before Auston even has a chance to fully open his eyes or steady the racing of his heart.

xx

When Auston’s back in his apartment lying in bed later that night, the conversation from the bar keeps popping into his head, replaying again and again, and he can’t stop looking for hidden sign of hatred or disdain that his brain is convinced must be there. He tries to read between the lines, feels a bit like a psychopath when he realizes he’s been analyzing his friends like subjects for close to 25 minutes now. It just doesn’t make any sense, all these people around him who think that being gay is acceptable. He's always understood that the majority of the world believes the opposite, and it’s no secret that sports – especially hockey – is supposed to be all over that sort of stuff: the insults, the mocking, the very occasional unofficial ‘testing’ that happens by an overenthusiastic teammate in the locker room who wants to make sure that “this is a safe space to get naked without tempting anyone”. And yet, here he is, the glorified star player of a major league hockey team and seemingly the only one with doubts about the morality of a dude wanting to fuck another dude.

It should make him feel safer, probably. And on a certain level, it does. But on another he’s just terrified. His whole world view is gaining crack after crack, starting to threaten to dissolve into pieces. On top of that, some of the things that pop through his head can be downright damaging; his constantly self-degrading brain filled with jabs and scorn and reminders of disgust. So, what. Does that mean _he’s_ homophobic? Can he even count as homophobic if he’s simultaneously hooking up with another guy? And he doesn’t voice those thoughts that get pushed through his psyche without his consent, so is it homophobic if he’s only cruel to himself?

He thinks about saying some of the bullshit he hears from his mind to Mitch, looking him in the eye and telling him “You are unnatural and repulsive and every time you give into that urge you’re one step closer to rotting in Hell.” (Not that he’s sure he even believes in Hell.)

Just the idea makes him want to throw up.

Auston thinks he’s cruel to Mitch in different ways, subtler ways, like bringing him close only to push him away an hour later, unwilling to even talk about something that was said or done. Like making him think that Auston’s capable of anything other than confusion and mixed signals. Like refusing to stay after they’ve had sex, simply getting up and walking out the door like anything’s happened. Like looking away every time Mitch tries to catch his eye after they’ve fallen over the edge, because the possibility of what might happen is too great to risk. Auston’s cruel to him like _that_.

Some days he proud of those things, that show of self-control and discipline. Other days he wants to burn every memory and erase the reality of their ruthlessness in the first place; solving that deep ache not by going over to Mitch and kissing him, holding his body close even after the last shake has left his system, but by locking himself far away and making the distance between them so large it can’t be travelled. It’s safer to try to walk away, not allow himself little slips of temptation; but he cracks every time, caves in to the goofy laugh and the sharp angles and the messy dark hair and the strong muscles and the broken noises that fall out when Mitch isn’t even aware he's making them. And then, for those short few moments, it’s bliss. Utter and complete bliss that is held back only by the voices - still irritatingly present - in the back of his mind to hold back, don’t kiss too much, don’t touch too gently, don’t act too emotionally. But the sex itself is like nothing he’s ever experienced, addicting and potent and so incredibly _right_.

Then the come down. How can something feel so right and still be so wrong? And thus begins the cycle once again; seemingly unending without a solution in sight.

That being said, Auston feels the closest he’s been to a breakthrough in his whole life; which is, to say, not very close at all. Still, the periods of questioning and doubt against the hatred are longer now, the people around him so unwaveringly supportive, the gentle urges to move forward getting stronger, the withering insults being tuned down to an all time low. It’s progress, as slow and painstaking and confusing as it might seem.

He’ll take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a lighter chapter to make up for the fireballs of angst I've been throwing your way lately (extra long too!) For the record, that incident with Getzlaf I mentioned did actually happen, I didn't make it up, soooo yeah. That's a thing. Anyways. I know a few of you have also been waiting/asking for Auston & Mitch to talk, so I added in a little bit of that as well (Auston's obviously not ready for too deep a discussion, but I thought it was time for him to dip his proverbial toe in the water). Hopefully you enjoyed seeing the whole team together, because I love writing their ridiculousness. And again, I have to thank you for your wonderful comments & kudos that never cease making me smile like an idiot. You guys rock <3
> 
> Chapter title is from the song 'The Way We Were' by Stateside.


	6. Come Push Me Over The Edge

See, Auston wasn’t snooping. He wouldn’t ever do that to a friend in the way that this went down. He was, however, hanging out with a few mutual friends from the Coyotes while they were in town at Mitch’s apartment when they needed to crack open a security blister pack containing a new PS4 controller that was so tough it snapped the scissors Mitch had in his kitchen drawers. After a second of disbelief of staring at the scissors that were now in two pieces, minor chaos and hilarity broke out.

“They’re Dollarama scissors, they’re not meant for this shit!” Mitch had yelled over the laughter, like he felt some absurd need to defend the utensil’s honour.

Finally, it was determined that Mitch’s Swiss Army Knife might be able to break the packaging, so he told Auston to grab it from his bedside table drawer while he got the guys another round of beers, making sure to give instructions as to where his bedroom was (as if they didn’t spend way too much time inside his apartment already). Still, Auston appreciated the thorough discretion of the gesture, and he went with minimal complaints of laziness, slipping into Mitch’s room and going right for the drawer in question.

Again. Clearly not snooping since he was given permission to be there. But the drawer wasn’t exactly _clean_ , because obviously not, it belongs to Mitch. So Auston had to dig around in the papers and random shit until his hand bumped against something near the back that he pulled out because it was hard and smooth and it might be the knife. And then it came free, and-

Well, that’s about the point when he stopped breathing.

It’s lube. A small tube of fucking lube sitting right in his hand staring back at him that’s effectively stopped his heart. Auston freezes pretty much on the spot, brain stalling because _how long has this been here?_ Did Mitch always have it, or did he buy it when they started-

Auston can’t go there. _Won’t_ go there. But still, the questions keep coming. Questions he has absolutely no right to even be thinking about in the first place but pop in nonetheless: Is this something Mitch uses often? And, like, _how_ , exactly? Is he waiting for Auston to offer something up that would require its use, or does he just want it on his own time? How would that even feel?

A single image of Mitch dares to pop into his head, so explicit and potent that he has to physically close his eyes and clench his jaw to get it out. His breathing has picked up a bit, mind already racing and screeching so loud he barely hears the door creak open a bit.

“Aus?”

Auston jumps, getting to his feet and taking a step back in a hurry, tossing the tube back into the drawer and whipping around so that he’s almost nose to nose with a confused looking Mitch. There’s a beat of silence where Auston can feel his cheeks heating up before Mitch pushes around him to look down, and then they’re both blushing.

“I wasn’t-” Auston starts feebly, feeling the need to say something.

“No, no, I know,” Mitch immediately reassures, kneeling down and clearing his throat as he roots around the drawer for the knife. “It doesn’t mean you have to, like, feel obligated or whatever.”

Auston quickly checks over his shoulder to make sure they’re alone, but all the voices seem to come from deeper inside the apartment, completely oblivious. “I don’t,” he says, and it’s mostly the truth. “It just caught me off guard.”

Mitch finally finds the knife and gets up, kicking the drawer shut. His face is unreadable as he looks pointedly at the space above Auston’s right shoulder. “I’m not saying I _wouldn’t_ be down,” Mitch finally starts, his face impossibly going a deeper shade of red.

Auston swallows hard, because apparently they’re talking about this now. With their friends laughing over some meme in the living room. Not weird or potentially dangerous at all.

“Or we could just forget the entire thing,” Mitch mumbles, shifting his weight like he’s planning on leaving, face screaming self-consciousness.

“No,” Auston says sharply, a bit too loudly, and he didn’t even plan on those words coming out, but apparently the snap decision was made.

Mitch freezes, looking back with guarded eyes from underneath ridiculously long lashes.

“I just mean-” Auston tries, cutting himself off with a sigh because what _does_ he mean, exactly? He needs more time to process this, honestly. “I just mean let me think about it, okay?”

Mitch blinks at him for second like he’s flabbergasted the proposition wasn’t shot down outright. “Yeah, no, take whatever,” he finally gets out in a rush, still looking a bit shocked. “We don’t even have to do, like, the _whole thing_ , or even at all, really, if you don’t want. I just meant you don’t actually have to be _in-_ ”

“Shut the fuck up Mitch,” Auston whispers, leaning in to grab the knife out of his hand as his heart kicks into high gear at the idea now presenting itself in his mind. He _really_ can’t do this right now.

He steps around Mitch and heads for door, pausing a moment at the threshold out of sight to take a deep breath and centre himself, trying to flush the unclean thoughts from his body like a filter. Auston takes one more pull of air before his mind feels normal again, and only then does he step out into the light of the hallway and the laughter erupting from his circle of friends, holding up the knife with a victorious grin and a faux nonchalance that by now he’s got down to an art form. He doesn’t even flinch when Mitch comes up behind him and wraps a casual arm around his shoulders.

But he wants to.

It feels too good.

xx

They don’t talk about it. The next time they hook up he’s waiting for Mitch to bring it up the whole time, waiting for him to head for the bedroom or direct Auston’s hands low on his ass or quietly ask if he’s made a decision or _something_. But nothing unusual happens (because apparently doing this with a guy has happened so often it’s no longer considered uncommon in his brain – just routinely disgraceful). They both get each other off, they kiss as much as Auston allows, and he makes a swift exit after Mitch falls back onto the couch making a tiny, soft sound that makes his insides melt for a split second.

But that doesn’t mean Auston’s not still thinking about it, trying to work through what he wants, what he can have, how far he’s willing to go. It’s difficult to piece through the information when his brain sends a definitive sledgehammer refusal every time he tries to think about it, so he doesn’t get too far down either avenue. His default, of course, is to emphatically decline, reaffirm that going even further down the path of no return is a shitty idea and should be avoided at all costs.

Except he can’t deny that the mere concept is lighting a fire deep in his core, can’t deny he’s entirely helpless to shake the whole thing from his thoughts, can’t deny that the painted image in his mind of Mitch pressed into the sheets and writhing because of his fingers makes him want to scream with how much he wants it. It’s overwhelming and confusing and probably shouldn’t be so unexpected how deep the desire has started to run considering how everything he and Mitch do together brings him to heights he never knew were possible.

He still doesn’t do anything about it and neither does Mitch. It’s just hanging in the air between them, unspoken and entirely known. There’s no pressure, which is a damn good thing, seeing as Auston has no idea what the hell he’s doing. But once the question was asked and a proposition made, it’s probably stupid to think it won’t end the same way everything else has; limited patience and a slow burn leading to the inevitable explosion.

xx

“I got a $2,500 dollar suit for free and it might be the end of my life.” Mitch announces in the car back from practice through splayed hands covering his face dramatically.

Auston shakes his head, just barely supressing the urge to roll his eyes at the near-constant stream of disastrous hyperbole he’s been dealing with all day.

“I might die,” Mitch points out in a half groan, slumping down in his seat grumpily.

“From the suit?” Auston asks mildly, raising an eyebrow. “Is it equipped with self-aware spy gear or something? Because if it is, I’m gonna need to get a sponsorship with your super-fancy downtown Toronto tailor company too, even if it is Canadian.”

“Fuck off,” Mitch snaps, punching his right arm none too gently with a pout. “This is serious.”

“Marns,” Auston says patiently, shooting him a look. “Everyone gets sponsorships. You might be the only person in the world who can turn a sweet, limited-commitment deal with a local business in which you get free and absurdly expensive stuff into a catastrophic, world-ending event. Calm the fuck down.”

Mitch huffs, crossing his arms over his chest like a six-year-old, apparently mortally insulted. “You haven’t even seen it,” he finally shoots over. “Even with _your_ style you’d be scared to wear it.”

Auston silently flips him the bird, but he knew a comment like that was eventually coming. He possesses what has been called a “unique” sense of style. It’s not _that_ out there, but it’s not exactly what any fashion magazine would be featuring in an article. Everyone knows this. Almost everyone on the team has chirped him for it at one point of another.

“I thought you were the one who chose the fabric,” he points out, trying to get the conversation off of himself. “Weren’t you bragging to Willy two weeks ago that you were gonna out-dress him or some shit?”

“Ugh, I forgot about Willy,” Mitch moans, throwing his head against the seat in distress. “And yeah, I chose it and it feels fucking amazing, but it’s just a _lot_ now that it’s all together. The colour is kinda not your typical black or navy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not typical either,” Auston mutters, trying to make a dig, but just coming off as overly fond. Mitch’s lips immediately quirk towards a smile though, and that makes up for the fact that Auston’s brain is rudely kicking himself for even opening his mouth.

“And it’s not exactly loose,” Mitch continues, wisely gliding over the unintended compliment. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a really good fit, but it just kinda invites a lot of… attention?”

Something foreign and hot bubbles in Auston’s chest, and he refuses to identify the feeling as jealousy. “You’re an NHL player and have girls creating Instagram pages devoted to you. Aren’t you used to getting attention yet?” he asks evenly, trying to keep emotion out of it.

Mitch sighs heavily. “Yeah, I guess so,” he admits, but his voice trails off like he’s not done.

Auston lets them drive for a few minutes of silence before they pull of the Gardiner and he quietly inquires “But?”

“I dunno, man,” Mitch sighs again. “Lemme at post-game interviews or a player-specific feature on LNN; this just feels… different. Haven’t you been nervous to wear something major before?”

Auston genuinely thinks about it. Clothes have always been a bit of an afterthought for him; something he’ll think about if he’s got time and energy, but otherwise it's just the shit he puts on his body to live his life. He wears what he wants, even if he gets chirped about it. If people don’t like it, that’s their problem. Why would he waste time on fashion when he could be wasting time with Fortnite or hockey tricks?

“Forgot who I was talking to,” Mitch comments after the long gap in response, but when Auston glances over he sees nothing but warm affection glinting in those blue eyes.

“Why don’t you just show me?” Auston offers, aware that they’re only about a minute away from Mitch’s apartment. “You know I’ll be honest. If it looks dumb I’ll tell you, and if it doesn’t, you know you’re good to go.”

“I don’t know if you’re best consultant for this type of thing,” Mitch murmurs, a smirk threatening, and Auston swats him one-handed. “But _fine_ , yes, just park in the garage and stop abusing me, jeez.”

 

They chat easily on the way up to Mitch’s door, but the second they step through, Mitch is all business, like someone flicked a switch. Auston kicks off his shoes and tries to follow him to the bedroom, but is ordered to stay outside while Mitch changes.

“Because I’ve never seen you naked before?” Auston comments sarcastically, realizing too late the multiple implications he’s making.

Mitch almost walks into a closed door at that, head snapping around with wide eyes and lips parted like they’re achingly close to saying something they both know shouldn’t be said. “You need the full effect,” he finally gets out, blinking as if he’s trying to hit a reset in his mind. “I’ll call you. Just wait.”

Auston hovers in the hallway long after the bedroom door shuts, trying to shake himself out of it before eventually wandering around and stretching out on the couch to mess around on his phone.

It takes two full levels of Candy Crush and getting halfway through a third before he hears his name being tentatively called to summon him from deeper within the apartment. He gets up and stretches, promising himself that he will actually be truthful, not that Mitch has ever worn something that's made him do anything except stutter. He doesn’t understand why there’s this ridiculous layer of anticipation that’s pumping through his veins, an unusual level of a sensation almost like excitement rippling in his body. His heart picks up with every step toward the bedroom, beating inexplicably like it’s walking toward an event instead of something that should be quick and easy, a simple favour. It doesn’t feel like that. Auston doesn’t know exactly what this feels like.

The door is mostly shut, opened just a crack, and he pauses to take a steadying breath before gently pushing it open, eyes locking onto the standing form a few feet inside like he’s attracted to the image like a magnet.

It takes every iota of power that Auston possesses to keep his mouth from instantly dropping open.

The two-piece suit is a gorgeous bright shade of teal, a subtle plaid patterning somehow managing to not overwhelm the overall look. A simple, crisp white shirt lies underneath, a deep maroon tie setting everything off. The colour is stunning, yes, but the real feature of its hue is not the fabric itself, but instead how it makes the blue of Mitch’s eyes startlingly clear, glistening like a prized jewel on his face. The fit leaves very little to the imagination, hugging every lean muscle on Mitch’s body and accentuating the curves of his figure perfectly. The fact that his feet are bare should be ridiculous, but it’s incongruousness makes the whole picture feel incredibly intimate; like the show is strictly for an audience of one, a private viewing.

Auston can’t breathe. His mouth is open now, and it should be taken in oxygen, but it’s as if his body has forgotten what the most basic steps to survival are except to openly gawk, drinking in what’s in front of him. Everything feels frozen from where he’s still stuck in the threshold between rooms. Words are nothing except imaginary ideations that flit quickly in and out of his brain at a frequency far too frantically to even consider understanding.

The whole thing shouldn’t be affecting Auston like this, and he knows that, is actively trying to stop it, but then Mitch nervously closes the button of his jacket, and the finishing touch to the complete ensemble effectively shatters his efforts.

“It’s a lot,” Mitch says tentatively, watching anxiously. “I know it’s a lot.”

And Auston stares, tries to figure out why his chest is suddenly so tight, why his heart has picked up, why the air feels quite so charged. “Yeah,” he gets out, and his voice fucking _cracks_ like the treacherous bastard that it is.

Mitch blinks, expression shifting and one eyebrow slowly going up. There’s a beat of silence before he asks “A lot in a good way?”

Auston swallows, not trusting his voice and probably taking too long before he nods his assent, taking another step into the room so he’s no longer hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

Mitch is still watching at him thoroughly, eyes darkening a little as he apparently finds exactly what he’s looking for. He boldly bridges the remaining gap between them in slow, careful strides, never once breaking their gaze until there’s only a foot left between them. The silence is loaded, the temperature rising with their jumping pulses.

“How good?” Mitch whispers, raising his chin a bit, and it come off like a dare.

And Auston can’t answer, _won’t_ answer, won’t reveal just how much he loves the suit on and just how quickly he wants it off – at least not with words. So he lunges forward and locks their lips together, pulling at the newly buttoned jacket until it slips off and carelessly throws the ridiculously luxurious fabric onto the floor. Mitch makes a muffled noise of protest, but Auston nips sharply at his lip and it quickly turns into a moan. Auston’s hands work the knot of the tie loose, opting to pull it apart and drop it to the floor in a pool of silk instead of preserve the perfect circle so their mouths don’t have to separate. They both work at the buttons of Mitch’s shirt until that joins the pile too, no complaints this time. Auston pulls away from the kiss to strip away his own (comparably underwhelming) shirt, giving Mitch just enough time to let out a breathy “So I guess you like it, huh?”

Auston locks in place, reality seeping in through the thick layer of lust around his mind. He feels his face go hard, muscles tightening a bit objection at the reminder of how they got here and who they are. He shouldn't be applying the word sexy to Mitch, should never apply it to any guy for that matter. Honestly the whole thing is ridiculous; a new, tailor-made suit shouldn’t be enough to push him over the edge, no matter who’s wearing it. But here they are. 

But Mitch just leans in, entirely unaffected by the silent existential crisis, lips brushing Auston’s ear as he murmurs “Just try not to rip the fabric, it’s absurdly expensive.”

And just like that, a fire erupts inside Auston’s body deep in a place he tries to forget about, instantly eclipsing all the doubts and hate and hesitation like a wall of unavoidable destruction. He snaps, basically; everything narrowing down them and how fucking close they could get if they tried, how many fucking clothes still separate their skin, how fucking much he needs this and needs it now. When he captures Mitch’s lips again, it’s sharp and definitive and with no intention of slowing down.

They move together like they’re both hanging off the edge and desperate for someone to hold onto, grabbing and kissing and pulling and it’s glorious. Auston’s head feels like it’s spinning, and Mitch is licking into his mouth with an intensity like he _knows_ , knows every bit of Auston’s soul; and Auston can’t help but give back every bit of passion inside of him fueled by the anger and humiliation and pure want crackling within. It feels like a frenzy; a clash that somehow works like a symphony. Mitch tugs at his hair and he hisses without thinking, a flash of something hot lighting up his system. Auston breaks apart from the kiss with an obscenely wet sound, turning them so he can push Mitch onto the bed, immediately scrambling on himself and reaching for the button of the dress pants.

“Don’t rip,” Mitch reminds him with a dark look, and Auston glares, half-tempted to tear a seam just to be an asshole. But he doesn’t, tugging off the trousers and flinging them in the general direction of the pile of clothing, leaving Mitch to deal with his boxers as he quickly gets out of his own jeans.

The fact that they’re on Mitch’s bed is already pushing his limits, already breaking a rule, but they’re way too far to go back now. And besides, his whole rule system seems to be going shit one by one these days, so at this point the practice of shattering yet another feels like an inevitability.

He crawls back onto the mattress to box Mitch in, lowering himself enough that their lips and tongues can tangle hotly; the kisses demanding, their hands strong bordering on aggressive. Auston can feel his mind struggling to function under the barrage of sensation flooding his brain, feels it try to figure out where this is going because making out for this long is never something he wants to allow.

He turns to his side in an attempt to get some air and find his head, but Mitch just follows him, hungry and unrelenting, a tiny noise slipping out into Auston’s mouth. He can’t fucking think like this; can’t remember why the hell he would ever want to when there’s so much to simply _feel_. His hands wrap low around Mitch’s hips without his own consent, rebelling against the strict regime and revelling in the way the action results in an immediate quiet moan of approval. A few fingers stray downward to the base of Mitch’s spine, moving solely on instinct at this point, doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he’s at the top of his ass moving down and feeling a shiver against him.

“Are you sure?” Mitch gasps, breaking the kiss with a painful amount of visible reluctance, and only then does Auston recognize what it looks like, what his body apparently has decided it’s going to do, what it took to finally push past his last remaining whisper of _can’t_.

He swallows hard, closing his eyes because nothing can work when Mitch is staring at him like that; open and hoping and willing.

“Just get the lube,” Auston whispers, feeling something break inside him; unable to tell if that’s a good thing or really, _really_ bad.

Mitch is gone in a heartbeat, scrambling toward the bedside table like he’s scared Auston might change his mind if he takes too long. He finds what he needs quickly, hesitating a moment before holding a box in his hands and tilting it so the cover can be seen.

Condoms.

“Are we-” Mitch starts, uncertainty painting his features.

“No,” Auston states firmly, shutting that right down, probably too harshly. “I’m not doing that.”

Mitch doesn’t flinch, nodding once. “Okay,” he ascents calmly, tossing the box back in the drawer and knocking it shut, lobbing the lube it Auston’s direction. “Your move.”

Auston picks up the tube, stomach churning with indecision. He’s faked his way through pretty much everything they’ve done in the past, but somehow this seems ten times more looming than anything he’s ever pushed himself through before. More dangerous. More serious. More capability to cause harm. He knows how to handle a dick because he has one, but he’s never, _ever_ touched his own ass.

“Hey,” Mitch says quietly, prodding his leg gently with a foot. “You want me on my stomach? Probably easiest, yeah?”

Auston nods, having no fucking clue which might be easiest, but it sounds logical, and it’s nice to pretend like he’s the one making the decision, giving him a single shred of confidence in an otherwise barren landscape of doubt. But maybe Mitch was just considerate enough to craft the sentence like that entirely on purpose. Doing this face to face is probably a horrendous idea anyway; given Auston’s recent lack of control, any opportunity to avoid staring into each other eyes should be avoided at all costs.

The whole situation suddenly hits him in the face, how deep he’s gotten himself without any idea what he’s doing. He leans back on his heels, swallowing hard with the small tube in his hands feeling as heavy as a dumbbell, staring down and wading through the muffled voices screaming at him to get up and leave with the blistering fear that comes with complete inexperience. He has no idea how make someone else feel good in this way, but it scares him more than anything that he wants to.

Silently, Mitch knees over to wrap his arms around Auston’s neck and presses their lips together again, reminding them both of that lick of fire that had them gasping. And honestly, it’s perfect; getting himself worked up just enough to melt away the anxiety and feel reckless enough to do something stupid. They probably get a bit too carried away, Auston ultimately pressing him down into the mattress and fighting back a moan at how Mitch’s tongue feels like it’s caressing every inch of him, almost forgetting he’s not supposed to be losing himself so completely. His heart is beating almost as fast as their ever-moving mouths are sliding against each other, gradually dialing the heat back up to a hundred.

When they pull away they’re both panting a bit, Mitch taking a minute before swearing under his breath at the ceiling and flipping over, squirming a little, probably at the way it feels pressing his growing erection against the sheets. Auston exhales once and then again (because apparently he needs it), before finally reaching back to find the lube, unscrewing the cap with fingers he’s trying to pretend aren’t shaking a little.

“Just give me one to start,” Mitch says into the pillow, and it’s phrased in such a way that Auston doesn’t feel like he’s being mocked for his inexperience, but at the same time gets the information he needs to do this right.

“Yep,” he replies, barely even a whisper, squeezing out a bit of the gel and warming the cool slick between his fingers, trying not to think too much about what he’s doing.

He coats a finger and takes one final deep breath before putting his dry hand on Mitch’s back as both a warning and a reminder to himself on how that skin on skin makes him feel, sliding down to slowly part his ass, heartbeat jumping faster than he cares to admit.

“Slowly,” Mitch murmurs, and the anticipation in his voice is audible, the muscles in his back and glutes tensing pre-emptively.

Auston nods like it can be seen, not exactly making sense right now and not even trying to. His finger flickers once over Mitch’s newly exposed hole, heart skipping at how it clenches like it’s asking to be filled. He presses forward, nice and slow, lips parting at how utterly explicit it looks watching a part of himself disappear inside Mitch’s body. It’s so much better, so much more _vivid_ than anything he’s imagined in those brief moments of slipping control.

“Oh fuck,” Mitch moans, legs restless enough to make Auston tear his gaze away and see the balled fists in the tangled sheets. “You’re good, Matts, move.”

Auston feels the breath forced from his throat at the reaction, mind whirring with the instruction. He pulls out the finger slowly, pressing back in like he would if he was fucking, hoping that’s what Mitch wants and feeling a flutter of satisfaction when he gets another quiet moan in response. The confidence settles deep in his chest, gaining steadily with the speed of his thrusts and the reactions it’s eliciting. It should probably be worrying how hard he’s getting just by watching Mitch get off and knowing he’s the reason, but the endorphins are kicking in and it’s becoming extremely difficult to care.

The hole almost feels loose after a while, and Auston’s working up the nerve to say something when Mitch gets out a breathy “Gimme two”, and the world stops turning for second because sometimes it’s scary how in sync they are. Auston pulls away his hand and slicks up another finger, heart already pounding with the question of just how far they can go with this. He wordlessly parts Mitch’s ass again and slowly pushes inside, feeling the tight muscles gripping him with a dizzying amount of strength.

“That’s good,” Mitch whispers when he bottoms out, and he sounds euphoric, so far gone. “That’s really good.”

Auston feels a tiny smile threatening at the sheer level he’s affecting him before he can stop it, and he scissors his fingers experimentally, feeling bold with this new self-assurance.

“Yeah,” Mitch immediately encourages, twitching a bit against the covers. “More.”

Auston’s eyes widen a bit at the amount of talk going on that they usually keep to a minimum, but he tries to ignore that, flexing his fingers and trying a few different angles when he starts pressing back in, getting down the start of a rhythm. Mitch has started wiggling his hips up, like he’s trying to get somewhere and he’s not quite there, and Auston gets hit with this unexpected and overwhelming need to make sure that he gets to that spot, to make sure he’s spiraling as much as he possibly can. He curls his fingers up on a whim on the next thrust, hitting hard, and Mitch fucking loses it, letting out a sound just short of a scream, clenching and grabbing onto the sheets like he needs them to anchor him to reality.

“Please,” he pants, arching up, and Auston feels like he might explode. “There. That spot. Again. C’mon, Matts.”

As if he needed fucking encouragement. Auston pulls back his fingers until they’re almost out, shoving back in and aiming for the same place and drowning in the guttural noise Mitch makes when it thrusts home. He starts a punishing pace, feeling electricity crawling through his veins with every whimper, his own dick leaking with show being put in front of him, the show he’s causing. He reaches down with his free hand and starts working himself to the same brutal tempo, a hot relief sinking through at finally being touched.

Mitch lets out another moan underneath him, his hole already starting to feel looser again, and Auston can’t be bothered to pull out again, can’t find it within himself to stop. So he just slips in a third on the next thrust and revels in the way Mitch keens when he still manages to brush up against the right spot with the added finger.

“Don’t you dare fucking slow down,” he threatens when Auston tries to cool it until Mitch has had time to adjust, and it feels like the floor falls out from under them.

“I won’t,” Auston whispers, unable to resist the promise, and pounds his way in until Mitch is back to writhing and sounds are falling from his lips like he can’t help it.

He makes the mistake of looking down instead of letting his eyes flutter shut again, and the sight is just… it’s almost too much. If anyone told Auston that watching his fingers lose themselves in his best friend’s ass would be the sexist thing he’s ever experienced, he’d probably have thrown up and then called them insane.

But it is. It fucking is. It’s one of the most all-consumingly erotic things he’s ever had the pleasure of witnessing. It’s terrifying how hard he is, how close is, how jerking himself off has never felt like this, how much he’s soaking in every sound Mitch is making and letting it wash over him. He’s fallen so far from what he promised himself, and it’s too exceptional to even make him care. He’s feeling how tightly Mitch is gripping him and his brain is going places, wondering things he never would’ve even considered before today. It’s inexplicable how utterly powerful it all is, but it’s real and it’s happening and it’s frighteningly breathtaking.

 _It’s just fingers_ , he tells himself wildly. _It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not real sex._

But then Mitch throws his head back with a broken cry and clenches down and the rush hits them both at the same time, chemicals going wild, and Auston knows in that moment, clear as day, that now they’ve experienced _this_ … fingers will never really be enough. Not for long.

 

Mitch can’t stop shivering, convulsing and twisting a little on the bedsheets and heaving for air, eyes clenched shut as waves seem to hit him over and over, even now. Auston watches his dry hand reach out like it’s not attached to him, sees it smooth over the small of Mitch’s back, just once, all he can let himself offer. Mitch lets out a breathy noise, and it sounds like a beautiful, happy release, his muscles loosening a little just from that tiny touch.

They breathe like that for awhile, connected in more ways than one before Auston slowly pulls his fingers out of Mitch’s ass, startling a little at a sound like discomfort hitting the relatively silent air.

“Are you-” he asks quietly, brain protesting him speaking but far too worried he did something wrong to keep his mouth shut.

“Sorry,” Mitch pants into the pillow, “I’m good. Just sensitive.”

Auston nods, not that the motion can be seen, swallowing a little at the scene in front of him.

“Are _you_ okay?” Mitch asks softly after a few more beat of silence, turning over with visible effort from the exhaustion, like he’s surprised he’s already gotten any sort of verbal response.

Auston looks away from all too knowing gaze, nodding again and scooting off the bed. “I’m fine,” he says, turning toward the ensuite, and that’s not even close to describing exactly how exquisitely sated and conflicted and chaotic his brain is feeling right now, but that’s all he’ll reveal.

“Did you hate it?” Mitch asks, and there’s a vulnerability in his voice Auston’s not used to hearing. “We don’t have to do it again, seriously. It’s alright if you think it’s weird, or gross or something-”

“It’s not,” Auston interrupts, still not turning around, because whatever toxic feelings he might have, he’s not about to make Mitch feel like shit because of his fucking mental issues. He can’t allow that. “It’s not gross, and you’re not gross for liking it. Or wanting it. Whatever.”

The words escape into the room and sink in for few moments before Mitch whispers “Promise?”

Auston braces himself against the doorjamb, flicking on the light in the bathroom, wondering if he’s got enough strength left to get out what he wants to say, knowing painfully well that the words still don’t apply to himself. They never will.

“Promise,” he whispers back, not even sure if it’s loud enough to he heard, not even sure if it should be.

And then he steps inside the ensuite and closes the door, finally building a barrier the weaker side of himself can’t easily break down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *phew* Well... that was a lot... Funny how one little crazy thing can set you over edge, eh? The beginning of this chapter really didn't wanna work with me, so I apologize it took so long to get out, but I hope you enjoyed :) Thank you as always for the kudos and beautiful comments that I reread over and over and over; it means so much to me <3
> 
> Chapter title is from the song 'Over the Edge' by Borgeous & tyDi.


	7. Whatever You Do, Don’t Let Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It mentions that this chapter takes place in October, even though it should be much later than that in the season. Just ignore the timeline because dates are stupid and the story just ended up like this, I’m so sorry :P

Auston tries extremely hard not to think about the guilt. It’s just yet another thing he’s locked in the dark recesses of his mind to make every possible effort to pretend that certain something doesn’t exist. Most of the time, he’s successful in his efforts. But it’s not perfect. Every so often little wisps of thoughts will slip through the defenses and start a ripple effect before he’s even entirely aware of the cause.

This thing, with Mitch…. Nothing has ever been so hard to block out. Nothing has ever felt quite so conflicting. Nothing has ever been quite so potent enough that he dares to think about unlocking the doors. Nothing has ever cause an occasional feeling of welcome when a memory breaks through, a feeling he scarce thinks might be happiness.

But Auston doesn’t analyze it; at least, not too much. But for the first time, when he feels his brain slip through a memory or an idea or an image or the echo of a sound from the time he and Mitch spend together, he doesn’t immediately search it out in an immediate seek and destroy mission. No. He lets it drift for awhile, lets it hover in his mind’s eye, lets his lips twitch towards a smile for a long moment – maybe too long – and then he quietly files it away back in the place that’s dark and hidden.

It’s a change. It’s not much, but it still feels significant enough to make him worry that he’s gotten himself in far too deep to ever get out again. Somehow that doesn’t seem as ominous as it once did in his head when he knows it’s Mitch he’s falling into, even if it still feels like a never-ending freefall with a one-way ticket to destruction.

He’s careful. Nothing changes outwardly, nothing changes when they’re together. The doubt and fear and disgust still loom on the horizon, ready and relishing every chance it can get to punish unacceptable behaviour (not that Auston’s stupid enough to give it much of an opportunity).

Still, traces of Mitch seem to leak into his subconscious; the carefree laugh he makes when they’re driving together, the intricate handshake they always do before going onto the ice, the playful shoves they trade when playing video games. They’re all easy, non-complicated memories; completely platonic. But there are other kinds of emotions that come from thinking about Mitch too. The confusion, the aching need to be close, the anger of being put in this position of wanting what he can’t have, the _guilt_. The guilt might be one of the hardest things.

Auston can’t say anything, of course, can’t verbalize what he thinks because that would be acknowledging the feelings in the first place. And he’s not ready for that, not entirely sure they exist when they disappear at the whim of his controlling brain. Action seems tricky. Too definitive. So he files away those thoughts too, thinks that maybe he’ll bring them up again when he’s ready to handle them, if such a time even exists.

He figures that’s the end of it.

Of course, it’s about a solid week into planning The Surprise that Auston realizes that his motivations might be something other than friendship, that maybe some of those feelings had seeped into the right places to make him actually do something good for a change. He could’ve packed it in right there, decided that it could get messy when a plan that seemed completely innocent turned out to have some possible ulterior motives.

But he doesn’t.

xx

Practice ends right on time, and the fact that Auston’s the first person off the ice isn’t just unusual; it’s entirely calculated. He subtly tracks Mitch’s form the whole way, shaking his head as he dances his way into the dressing room behind him, humming an old Bon Jovi song loudly. Auston ditches him to shower, Bozie holding Mitch up to discuss something incredibly trivial as per the plan. He gets clean faster than he probably ever has before, and by the time he and most of the other guys have clothes on, Mitch is just starting to head to the showers.

“Did you get it?” Auston hisses loudly in Marty’s ear the second Mitch has left the room. “Did you get the stuff? Because you promised, dude, you swore on your-”

“On my new truck, yeah,” Marty snaps quietly. “I remember that quite clearly, thanks. And of course I brought everything you asked – or should I say _demanded_ – from me last night at shit o’clock. They’re in my bag. I said I would Matty, chill out.”

Auston exhales in relief, a sliver of guilt at his pressing tone permeating now that the temporary panic has subsided. “Cool. Thanks. And, uh, sorry. About being a dick or whatever. I just wanna get this right, y’know?”

Marty grins at him, the testy expression dissolving instantly at the omission. “No sweat kid,” he assures him, slapping him good-naturedly on the back. “I get it; I’d do anything for Mitchy. It’s a pretty dope idea if I’m being honest. Kinda pissed I didn’t come up with it myself. Can I get half-credit since I’m bringing the supplies?”

Auston snorts. “I’m generous,” he says with a smirk, “But I’m not _that_ generous.”

“Fair enough,” Marty relents, swinging his glance over to make sure Mitch is still in the showers. “All the other guys in on it?”

Auston nods. “Carrick’s gotta do something with his girlfriend, Hainsey’s got a meeting with his agent, and Mac has to pick up his kids, but other than that, everyone’s sticking around. It won’t be long, so it’s not like it’s inconveniencing anybody.”

“It would be worth it even if it was,” Patty interjects as he walks by, toweling of his hair. “It was pretty nice of you to think of this Matty. Captain-like material right there.”

Auston feels his cheeks heat up. “That’s not why I’m doing it,” he clarifies quickly.

Patty just beams back at him in the same proud way his Dad sometimes does. “That makes it all the more impressive,” he returns gently.

Auston shifts his weight slightly uncomfortably under the glowing approval, clearing his throat. “Thanks?” he tries. “Really, we’re just friends, y’know, so I thought it’d be funny or something. I dunno. He does nice things for me all the time, so…”

“Give the poor kid a break!” Marty jokes easily, apparently taking mercy on Auston’s unease. He lowers his voice considerably before confirming “You got the trainers to agree to the temporary diversion, right?”

Auston nods again, much happier to field these types of questions than discuss his own interactions and relationship with Mitch. “Yeah, Ryan said he’d call Mitch down for a routine physical and then halfway through make some excuse about needing to take an urgent phone call. Mo said he’d be the courier for that message as soon as Mitch is dressed. He’s already outside and waiting. That should give us more than enough time to do what we need to do.”

Willy whistles quietly, overhearing the conversation and joining their small group. “You’re going all out,” he says approvingly. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“It took like two seconds to set up,” Auston informs him a bit defensively, lying through his teeth.

Willy raises a skeptical eyebrow, but drops it with a disbelieving “Okay.”

Auston’s saved from any more questions by a power-walking Zach exiting the showers with a pointed look and a subtle nod of his head. The signal.

“Disperse,” Marty directs quietly, sounding utterly casual, and the group scatters off to wherever they need to be to not look suspicious to Mitch when he comes strolling out with a towel wrapped around his waist a few moments later.

 

It’s business as usual until Mitch, finally dressed, tosses aside the towel he was using to dry his long unruly hair and Mo, perfectly on cue as always, steps into the dressing room and calls that the training staff urgently needs to see Mitch for some reason.

Mitch groans, dropping his tape into his bag. “Do you mind waiting?” he asks Auston hopefully. “I don’t know how long this will take.”

Auston pretends to look vaguely annoyed, rolling his eyes but eventually saying “Fine. Just text me when they let you go okay? Then I’ve at least got a little warning.”

Mitch smiles back at him, relief pouring out of his features that he won’t have to get a cab home. “You’re the best,” he whispers, slapping him once on the arm and running a quick hand through his still-damp hair as he rushes his way out the door to follow an impatient-looking Mo.

“And now we know when he’s coming,” Brownie surmises as soon as the door shuts, nodding and looking a little impressed. “Nice.”

“Yeah, if he remembers to text me,” Auston mutters, quickly pulling a hidden bag down from the top shelf of his stall. “Marns has got the memory of a goldfish sometimes, and I’m being kind here. That’s why I told Mo to stick around the trainer’s office just in case.”

“Alright, enough chatter,” Marty instructs clapping his hands together encouragingly. “We don’t know exactly how much time we’ve got, so let’s get moving.”

Most of the guys just stand around, happy to let everyone else do the work on Mitch’s stall and provide exceptionally unhelpful commentary. Auston grabs the streamers and tape from his bag, passing the latter to Marty, who retrieves a folder with printed out photos from his own duffel. Auston had called the veteran at almost eleven o’clock the night before in a burgeoning panic when he had realized, far too late, that he was out of card paper.

“I brought the banner you asked for,” Patty says, holding out shiny blue letters strung together to spell out ‘Baby’s 1’st’. “Christina says to do with it what you wish. She also mentioned she thought it was impressive you’d think of asking us in the first place.”

Auston gives him an amused look. “I just thought it’d probably look bad if someone got a candid shot of me buying baby stuff,” he admits.

Marty snorts loudly and Patty blanches slightly. “I think we should try to avoid that for awhile,” he agrees, looking mildly shaken with the prospect of becoming a Grandfather.

“Need any help?” Willy asks, draping himself over one of Auston’s shoulders and turning his head confusedly at the banner and getting out slowly, “A baby is not what I thought we were celebrating.”

Auston shakes him off, rolling his eyes. “We’re cutting it in half,” he informs him obviously. “You can try and find some scissors.”

“Ahh,” Willy says, looking much more settled at the explanation. “Yeah, I think I know where some are…”

He scurries off, recruiting Kappy on the way out of the dressing room, and Auston turns back to Mitch stall. Marty’s taped candid photos on both sides of the wood, leaving just enough room for streamers to criss-cross on either side. “Nice,” he comments approvingly, reaching for the blue and white streamers.

Freddy appears out of nowhere, gently taking the streamers out of Auston’s hands and swiping the tape off the bench. He tapes the end of the steamers together and attaches it to one side of the stall, twisting them in an artistic spiral to the other side while leaving an attractive drape in the gap. He fastens that with more tape and repeats it to finish off the X shape in between the photos. He stands back to observe the look, apparently satisfied with the result, and it takes a second before he looks around to find most of the room gaping at him.

“Goalies…” Willy murmurs in wonder from where he and Kappy are standing in the doorway with confused and impressed expression.

Freddy shrugs, seemingly unaffected by all the stares, and he hands the tape back to Auston before retreating back to his stall and pulling out his phone.

“Did you get the scissors?” Auston asks Willy, snapping him and his roommate out of their trance.

“Of course,” Kappy answers, both of them looking mildly offended at the lack of trust, and hands them over handle first.

Auston grabs them with a quick thanks, snipping off the ‘Baby’s’ part of the sign so all that remains is the ‘1st’ and strings on either end. Willy snatches back the scissors to return them to wherever they came from, and Marty helps Auston to tape up the banner at the very top of Mitch’s stall.

The overall effect is actually better than he expected it to be. It honestly looks pretty cool, if he’s being honest with himself, and he gets to admire it for all of ten seconds before Mo is bursting into the dressing room with Willy close on his heels.

“He forgot to text!” Mo explains quickly, grabbing everyone’s attention with his abrupt entrance. “He’s only a few hallways behind me!”

“We’re not singing or some shit, are we?” Naz asks sharply. “’Cause I’m not singing, even for Mitchy.”

“No, we’re not fucking singing,” Auston huffs, shooting a glare his way while he throws the tape and leftover streamers in his bag and zips it shut. “Just hit the lights and turn them on when he’s good an confused.  And everyone shut the hell up.”

Naz grins evilly at him. “I like your thinking Matts,” he says a conspiratorial voice, giving him a quick nod before heading for the light switch.

 

The room goes dark for maybe six seconds before the door swings open and Mitch walks through, immediately stopping in his tracks with a ‘The fuck?”

The dressing room is pitch black without the lights on, and Auston gets just enough a peek from when the lights of the hallway flood in to sneak through the shadows and be in perfect position once the door swings shut behind him. He grabs for Mitch’s body in the darkness, aiming for his shoulders and actually getting his waist.

“Matts?” Mitch asks, and his voice is a bit too low and a bit too hopeful, like he’s expecting something else.

Auston’s stomach swoops, because almost the entire fucking team is in the room listening, so he quickly drags Mitch over to roughly where his stall is and calls “Hit the lights!” before any other ideas can get into either of their heads.

When they flick on again it’s blinding, and groaning complaints are just as prolific as the laughter and cheers as Mitch rubs his eyes and looks around, utterly confused. Auston takes a few steps away to the side, trying to stop his skipping heart at the near miss and actually enjoy all the work he’s put into this moment. Which really isn’t a lot, mind you. But still.

“The fuck is this?” Mitch asks, looking around the room with a baffled smile, a little breathless.

“Ask your carpool buddy,” Marty informs him, crossing him arms with a smirk.

Mitch looks around the room, finally finding Auston in the crowd. “The fuck is this?” he repeats, but now it’s more excited than anything.

Auston’s brain is still slightly scrambled, but he pulls himself together enough to take a couple steps forward and ask “What’s the date today?”

“October 15th?” Mitch says, but it’s more like a question. “I don’t-”

“Will you just look at your damned stall?” Marty interjects, exasperated, and he pulls Mitch into position directly in front of it, holding him in place and sticking close as he looks.

Auston feels a pang of something hot like jealousy pierce his chest at how easily Marty can touch Mitch – even if it’s strictly platonic – like it’s the most straightforward thing in the world to just reach out and be close. He has to shake the feeling off quickly, shove that down to a place he doesn’t think about. He can’t afford this right now.

“What happened last year on October 15th?” Marty asks impatiently, shaking Mitch’s shoulders a little before taking a few steps back.

Mitch finally takes in the stall: the photos of that game, the candid captures of his celly, the 1st banner hanging from the top. Recognition suddenly lights in his eyes as he whips around with a grin to find Auston again. “My first goal?” he confirms, an excitement emanating from his body that’s utterly contagious, laughter kicking up from around the room.

“I mean, even if you only got _one_ goal that game,” Auston comments with a devilish smirk, “I figured it’s still worth celebrating.”

Mitch tries to glare at him but it just turns into another helpless grin. He then seemingly gives up and launches himself forward to suffocate Auston in a tight octopus-like hug. “Thank you, you pompous fucking asshole,” he whispers happily, and Auston shoves him off with a smile of his own.

“Don’t let it go to your already giant head,” he warns, flicking him once softly in the forehead simply to be a prick.

Mitch swats away his hand and sticks out his tongue like a six-year-old.

“Okay, enough with the adorable bantering bullshit,” Naz interjects, “Some of us have appointments to go to, get on with it.”

“Staring at yourself in the mirror doesn’t count as an appointment,” Leo pipes up from his stall, and smatterings of laughter and dramatic “ooohhh” noises erupt from throughout the dressing room.

Naz deftly presents his middle finger and shows it around with an unamused look on his face, but Auston decides to hurry it up nonetheless.

“So we all decided to get you something-”

“More like Matts threatened to whip practice shots at us unless we payed up,” Brownie contributes with a smirk.

“Will all of you just shut the fuck up?” Auston mutters viciously under his breath, sending a glare in Brownie’s direction and battling with a blossoming flush of self-consciousness before raising his voice up to normal levels and continuing. ‘We all decided to get you something, mostly in the hopes you’d have mercy and tone down the energy in the mornings because _holy shit_ Marns, but also ‘cause we kinda like you.”

Mitch blinks at him in anticipation, the already present grin on his face stretching impossibly wider. Auston tries not to find it endearing. He’s failing, yeah, but at least he’s putting in the effort.

He doesn’t entirely trust his voice in the room full of their friends anymore, so he just reaches into his duffel hanging from a hook in his stall and pulls out a gift bag, wordlessly handing it over, a million emotions churning in his stomach. He ran the gift past a few people he trusts (Patty, Mo, his Dad), but the nervousness is still there.

Mitch eagerly plops onto the bench and rips through the bag, tossing the tissue paper unceremoniously to the floor like a kid. He stops dead when all that’s left is the gift, staring down with an expression no one can really see, let alone read. Slowly he sticks his hands in and carefully lifts up an oversized silver hockey puck, every inch etched entirely with words and messages from the team.

“There wasn’t room to say much,” Auston tell him, voice a bit caught with anxiety at the unnaturally quiet reaction. “But it’s in everyone’s handwriting. I even called Matt and Boyle, y’know, since they were here when you got your first.” He walks forward to sit a few feet away from Mitch on the bench, playing with one of the string handles on the gift bag for something to do with his hands. “It’s got the date on the bottom too.”

Mitch finally raises his head, lips parted and eyes wide in awe or shock or something major. For a split second he stares at Auston in such way that he feels a bolt of terror whip through him that Mitch is actually going to try and kiss him, right here in the middle of the dressing room in front of every single one of their teammates; give away everything. But then the look passes, eyes seeming to remember where they are, and everything snaps back to normal, a smile finding his lips and gaining traction every second. Auston barely has time to react before Mitch lunges forward and locks him in another ridiculous bear hug that almost knocks them both off the bench.  

Amused snorts and laughter erupt in the previously unusually quiet dressing room, and a few people are actually obnoxious enough to applaud.

“Thank you,” Mitch whispers again in his ear, genuine warmth coming through, and it tickles.

Auston pushes him off half-heartedly, because that’s what’s expected of him (never mind if a part of him could’ve stayed like that happily for another few hours), but he can’t stop his smirk, or the way his voice wavers a tiny bit when he murmurs “You’re welcome” as they’re pulling away.

Mitch immediately jumps up to start hugging the rest of the team, chattering away in excitement and letting everyone swarm him to get another look at the engraved silver puck.

“So that was a success,” Willy concludes with a grin, plopping down beside Auston. “And you were worried.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Auston scoffs, lying, and he gets a skeptical look from Willy in return. “Fuck off,” Auston tries again, but it lacks bite and Willy cackles.

“The bromance lives,” he croons, getting up in gracefully, arms stretched wide as he soars around in an idiotic circle.

“Yo, Matts,” Naz calls from the cluster of player surrounding Mitch. “What does your message mean?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Auston shoots back, heartrate kicking up a bit.

He thought for a long time about what to inscript with his shortened amount of available characters, probably too long if he’s honest. He didn’t want to just write something down that was meaningless, but he had to be exceptionally careful at the same time. Don’t give too much away, don’t provide some sense of false hope, don’t pick something the rest of the team would ask prying questions about. He wanted it to mean something, but not too much. It took him almost a week and an urgent email from the designer asking for the final quote if he wanted it to be ready on time for Auston to finally make the decision. It came to him on the drive down to the rink that morning in a flash like lightning because _of course_. _Of course_ that’s what should be down there. A memory and a promise and secret wrapped up in one that can be entirely platonic, or-

Okay, he’s not really ready to think about the “or”.  And maybe he never will be.

It’s perfect, is what he’s saying. And entirely meaningless to everyone except the two of them.

 

_“The third song in the quiet playlist. – Aus”_

 

Eventually the impromptu gathering dissipates, people scattering to whatever the hell their commitments are until it’s just him and Mitch left in the dressing room, carefully taking down the taped-up pictures and streamers and picking up the tissue paper. Auston’s been keeping an eye on him, waiting, and finally Mitch goes for his phone, presumably scrolling through playlists until he gets to the one Auston flat-out demanded he create for those bad loss nights or the days his head is still pounding from a hard hit.

Mitch’s whole body freezes when he finds it, thumb stopped over the track in question even as he swallows hard, staring at the screen. Auston throws the tissue paper and streamers in the recycling, if for no other reason than to have a valid excuse to turn his back. When he turns around Mitch’s head is up, eyes searching and finding and Auston wants to hide with how much he’s scared he’s revealing, how much he’s letting himself be seen.

“Coldplay,” Mitch says quietly, voice filled with wonder. “Us Against the World.”

Auston’s mind goes blank with all the things he had prepared to say, all the brush offs and jokes to make this not a big deal; and he just nods once, struggling to keep eye contact.

There’s a gap of silence that seems to last a lifetime before Mitch looks down at his phone again and clears his throat before asking, “Y’know, uh, you know that that’s a love song, right?”

Auston scoffs softly, going to his stall to grab his jacket and bag. “No it’s not,” he objects.

“Really?” Mitch asks, but there’s not a trace of annoyance there. Just patience. “Have you listened to the lyrics?”

“Alright, fine,” Auston relents, unzipping his duffel just so he can look through what he knows is already there and zip it back up again. “Not necessarily.”

“Not necessarily,” Mitch echoes pensively, slipping his phone into his back pocket and grabbing his own stuff. “I’ll take those odds.”

Auston’s eyes widen, stomach dropping. “That’s not what I meant-” he tries to say, but Mitch is already through the door out into the hallway halfway through his sentence, a smile that looks like hope gracing his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter this time, but the adorableness makes up for it, yes?? Hopefully! Also, the next one is really gonna be huge (both literally and significantly) so get ready for that :) And I know I sound like a broken record every time, but your comments & kudos... guys... you're wonderful <3 Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> Chapter title is (unsurprisingly) from 'Us Against The World' by Coldplay. Now, I'm not giving away any spoilers, but keep your eye on this song.... Okay, that's all I'm saying :)


	8. With Shortness of Breath You Explained the Infinite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guess what? I’m not actually dead! Yay! Unfortunately, a close family member of mine was urgently rushed to the hospital a little over a week and a half ago, so I’ve been spending most of my time lately in the ICU helping out. This meant, of course, that my writing had to take a back seat, and hopefully you guys don’t hate me too much for disappearing. Luckily things are finally starting to get less intense around here, so I shall try my best to make up for lost time! Again, my apologies <3
> 
> Willy & Kappy have been added as a background relationship because the more I kept writing the more it kept… happening. It’s subtle and absolutely not the main focus, but it’s there enough that I added the tag. I harbour exactly zero guilt over this development :) P.S. Quick Google Translates may be your friend for a few bits at the beginning. Alrighties! Enough talk; onto the story…

Auston shouldn’t get drunk anymore. Or, at least, he shouldn’t get drunk when Mitch is around; since he’s the entire problem now when it comes to consuming alcohol. They’re at a team party at Auston’s apartment to celebrate Brownie’s birthday, and all he wants is for everyone to go the fuck home so he can get Mitch pressed against a flat surface and get helplessly lost in the lust and the sounds and the feel and-

It’s bad. It’s really, _really_ bad.

They’re dangerous thoughts to have pounding so loudly in his head when almost the entirety of the team is crowded into his living space, but one too many beers these days always seems to land him back in the same place. He’s trying desperately to counter-act the affects by staying as far away from Mitch as humanly possible within a relatively confined space, eating whatever’s available to keep his mouth busy, watching the impromptu video game tournament on the flat screen, and pretending to look involved. But all it’s doing is numbing the thoughts for a period of five or ten minutes before they explode again with renewed vigor.

Just when’s decided he’s going to quietly lock himself in his room to rub one out, Willy plops down next to him on the couch with a giant grin.

“Matty,” he greets happily, drawing out the A sound in a drawl.

Auston snorts at his clearly inebriated state, trying to see this unplanned interaction as a useful distraction instead of a roadblock. “You’re drunk,” he notes bluntly, smirking.

“Yup,” Willy agrees, eyes sparkling. “Waaayy drunk. It’s awesome. Y’should try it.”

 _Oh, if only he knew_ , Auston laughs internally, a bit hysterically. “Where’s Kappy?” he tries instead, trying to change the subject. “You guys are always locked together at parties.”

“Mmm,” Willy hums, eyes drifting a bit. “He’s abandoned me for a bit to get some more food. It’s depressing, I know… I miss him already, my little Finnish _älskling_.”

Auston doesn’t bother asking for a translation there, knowing all to well how quickly Willy shifts back into Swedish when he’s had a few, completely unaware he’s doing it. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon, dude,” he comforts mockingly, gently shoving his linemate’s head affectionately.

“He better be,” Willy whines, leaning his head far back as if he can possibly see behind him that way for his incoming friend. “ _Han är så vacker idag_ , y’know? It’s aawweeesome.”

Auston makes a noncommittal noise, just barely choking back a laugh at the amount of slurring going on in that sentence – even the Swedish bit. “Tell you what,” he offers amusedly, “I could go look for him and tell him you’re here, yeah?”

Willy’s eyes widen comically wide at the proposal, mouth dropping open. “You’d do that?” he asks, shocked, a smile appearing. “Matty, have I ever told you that you’re like, really cool? Because _helig skit_ , you _are_.”

Auston rolls his eyes, already knowing that translation. But before he can move a muscle to get up, someone is dropping a paper plate of snacks on the coffee table and jumping happily into Willy’s lap, nearly kicking Auston in the process.

“Kassu!” Willy exclaims joyfully, reaching around with long arms to pull the Finn against him.

Kappy honest to god giggles, clearly also drunk, trying to pull away a little. “I was gone for like two seconds,” he protests, grinning at the enthusiastic welcome. “ _Olet naurettava_.”

“You missed me,” Willy says firmly, trying and failing to get a serious expression to stay for more than a second.

“ _Joo_ , I missed you,” Kappy admits willingly, rolling his eyes a little, much to the delight of Willy, neither of them making any further move to separate themselves.

Auston watches the exchange, watches the way the Scandinavian pair are staring at each other, watches how easily they sink into each others’ space – and very quickly decides that this is probably the exact opposite of what he needs. He gets up from the couch, his presence already forgotten, and he’s becoming more and more aware of just how much he’s drunk by how little disgust is bubbling to the surface at Kappy and Willy’s over-the-top reunion. He should be analyzing that, should be categorizing it as unacceptable; but all he’s doing is feeling something like yearning and wondering what it would be like to want Mitch leaping into his arms like that, not giving a shit if anyone was watching. He can’t imagine ever being that far gone, but maybe the fact that he’s imagining it with this weird wistfulness means that he’s not as safe as he thinks.

And that’s about the moment he realizes something has got to give. Auston doesn’t even try to make eye contact or leave an excuse, just heads straight for his room and plans on utilizing the lock as soon as he gets there. He slips inside without any questions or delays, but before he can fully shut the door behind him, someone pushes back, forcing their way rudely inside.

It’s Mitch. Because of course it is, and the world fucking hates him.

Auston stares for a second, a million thoughts ranging from an urge to run and an urge to fuck flipping through his head like a short film before he can get out “What are you doing?” in a voice that’s meant to be confused and slightly angry – Mitch just pushed inside his room, what the fuck – but it comes out hushed.

Mitch swallows once, looks down for a second like he’s just realizing how impolite he’s being. “I was worried about you,” he finally offers, a tad defensively, eyes earnest. “I just saw you like, run out of the party or something, so I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Auston doesn’t say anything, honestly trying to simply get his breathing under control. With his self-regulation in its current state, being alone and drunk in dark room with Mitch inside an apartment filled with teammates is quite possibly the most dangerous state they could be in. Normally he has the confidence to walk away from anything, no matter how tempting, but right now he’s on the edge of something massive with no safety harness in sight.

And he wants to jump in. He’s so close to jumping in.

“ _Are_ you okay?” Mitch presses, taking a step forward, as if the previous proximity wasn’t taxing enough. “Whatever you need, Matts, I could help-”

And Auston snaps, surging forward until he’s colliding with Mitch and forcing him back against the door until it clicks shut and kissing him like nothing else matters, drowning in the way long arms immediately pull him closer because right now all he needs is _this_. He was already long gone before, but now… Now he can feel himself being taken apart piece by fucking piece. Mitch isn’t holding back, sucking on Auston’s tongue and threading strong fingers through his hair, nails scraping gently across his scalp and causing a shiver. It’s everything Auston has been craving all night, everything he knew it could be.

He gets one hand under Mitch’s shirt just to feel the skin, a quiet moan slipping through his alcohol-loosened lips at the long-awaited contact. A shudder vibrates against his fingers at the unusual sound, and it sends a thrill through his system. He trails his hand downward, his second joining the first to slip under Mitch’s waistband, his lips faltering a little in the sloppy kiss at being quite so close, knowing full well where touching like this leads.

But he doesn’t want to just fuck Mitch with his fingers again. They’ve done it more than once since the first time, each one more and more overwhelming than the last. Auston just keeps watching his fingers disappear inside Mitch’s hole and wondering how exceptional it would be to have it be something else, keeps feeling the grip and coming almost entirely from the idea of it tightening around his dick, keeps jerking himself off to the same rhythm and knowing that it’s somehow not enough.

Mitch’s hips are twitching now, trying to grind against Auston’s from his trapped position, kissing with a desperate kind of ferocity that’s almost too much to take. Auston’s hands slip lower under his jeans, gliding to the top of his ass, and he feels a switch click inside him, the last bit of control being overruled. He painfully breaks his lips away and shudders at how Mitch gasps for air like it’s secondary to the kiss, revels in how his arms are tight around his hips.

“I want,” Auston whispers, unable to speak louder than that. “I wanna fuck you.”

“Oh my god,” Mitch moans quietly, head falling back against the door with a thump, hips already thrusting forward automatically like he can’t help himself. “Matts, are you-”

And then his eyes shoot open, body going still. “Matts,” he says again, but this time it’s more measured, more guarded. “How drunk are you?”

Auston freezes too, hands still in place, their faces not even an inch apart. “A bit,” he finally admits, and thinks about how me made a noise, thinks about how he’s making out and offering to fuck Mitch while a team party goes on outside the room with the door not even locked, thinks about how even now the admonishing fury is oddly absent. “A lot,” he amends in a hushed tone, face flushing with humiliation.

Mitch nods, swallowing like he’s got confirmation of what he feared. His hands slide up Auston’s body to pull his head back in, kissing him again with the same emotion, but a decided lack of urgency. Their lips tangle like that for awhile, both their hearts calming down from the chaotic frenzy, but pulsing with the same ever-present need.

Mitch eventually pulls back with a quiet sigh, leaning against the door for a moment with his eyes still closed. “I’m not letting you fuck me like this,” he finally murmurs, opening his eyes. “Not for the first time. Not when you’re wasted.”

Auston looks away, a different flavour of shame than usual hitting him hard. He feels a directing hand guiding his gaze back up.

“I’m not saying I don’t want it,” Mitch admits, barely audible, and his eyes scream truth. “And I really hope you’re drunk enough that you’ll forget me saying that I want it so fucking bad Matts. _So_ bad. I’ve wanted to hear you say that for as long as I can remember. But- but not like this. So just… tell me, okay? When you’re sober and if you remember me saying this and you don’t hate me for it, just tell me. And we… we can do that.”

Auston swallows hard, trying to brand this moment so deep in his brain that when the alcohol leaves his veins and the hate seeps back in it will remain unaltered. He doesn’t know if it’ll work. He’s not sure if it should.

There’s a little crash that comes from outside the room, followed by loud swearing and laughter, and it sobers them both back to their surroundings.

“No one saw me follow you in here,” Mitch whispers, and yeah, Auston probably should’ve led with that question when he stepped inside, his whole safety-grid apparently gone to shit the second they got close.

He nods in return, words still beyond him.

Mitch’s eyes soften, and his hand twitches like he wants to run his hand through Auston’s hair or something equally as off-limits before he drops it to hang safely beside him, taking a step to the side with a steadying exhale. “I’ll go out first?” he asks, one hand already on the door handle.

Auston nods again, biting his tongue to stop himself from asking Mitch to stay a little while longer.

“Okay,” Mitch whispers, and he can hear the regret in his voice. “If anyone did see I’ll tell them you needed help with Brownie’s present or something.”

“Okay,” Auston echoes, even though _he_ should be the one coming up with the excuses.

Mitch hesitates a moment longer, opening his mouth before ultimately thinking the better of it. “Okay,” he agrees once more, and it has an air of finality. “I’ll just… go.”

He slips through the door without another look or word, and Auston’s left with an acidic taste left in his mouth with vocal chords straining to keep inside a pleading murmur of: _Don’t. Don’t go._

He wonders in a flash if this is how Mitch feels every time he leaves and hates himself with a bitter distain that he wishes pointlessly he could somehow fix.

xx

The hangover he has the following morning is absolutely legendary, and not in a good way. The sunlight feels like fire burning his retinas and his head is pounding like a beat in a club. Actually, maybe there is a club transplanted inside his body, because everything feels grimy and crusty and overall just disgusting. Luckily the team was smart enough to plan the party before an off day, so Auston forces himself out of bed to grab some Gatorade (which he very nearly pukes up) and spends most of the morning on the couch with all the windows shut.

He falls asleep at some point, waking up late in the afternoon feeling far more human than when he initially woke up. He snacks carefully, chugging liquids to try and rehydrate while popping a few Advil to take the edge off what’s left of his headache, dropping back on the couch with a sigh.

Normally an off day would be coveted time to recharge and relax, but right now it just feels like a trap; a stretch of open space to ruminate about all the things he wished he didn’t know. Except, of course, that he _does_ know.

Auston remembers. _Everything._

Auston wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to remember Mitch whispering the promise to him the night before, wasn't sure if it was a good thing or irreparably bad. Regardless, he couldn't ignore the fact that it was dangerously present, the knowledge circling his head and lingering like it was asked personally to never leave - which, actually, Auston kind of did, intentionally imprinting it into his memory seconds after it was spoken. The implications of what he's capable of is rather shocking; he wasn't aware he could overpower his executive order to erase like that, but apparently so. Either that, or the strong influence his safeguards once had were weakening. Both options seem mildly terrifying.

Honestly, the heated discussion currently in his brain about the words he spoke the night before shouldn’t even be occurring. Sex – _actual_ gay sex – was something he took off the table for himself a long time ago.

Except he’s not the same person he was when he originally made that promise.

He hadn’t met Mitch when he made that promise. He hadn’t felt the unimaginable euphoria that comes from long, strong fingers grasping him and pulling earth-shattering orgasms out of his body that last a lifetime when he made that promise. He hadn’t wished he was different when he made that promise. Everything feels like it’s changing; caught in a petrifying state of flux, and Auston for the life of him has no idea what he’s morphing into.

All he can do is what he has been: blindly following the instincts once buried now starting to show signs of blooming, hiding when he needs to, and trying not to lose himself in the chaos. The best thing he’s found in situations like this is to occupy himself to the point where it doesn’t even feel like he’s thinking about it. Most of the thinking about Mitch happens in a layer of subconscious; deep where he can pretend the conflict isn’t really happening.

So Auston ignores it (at least on the surface), dozing and snacking and drinking and texting his Mom and scrolling through Twitter with music on super low volume until the light fades outside and the stars start to appear.

By 11:00 that night, he’s almost certain of what he wants to do.

xx

He doesn’t talk to Mitch until they meet up at the airport the next morning. Even so, it’s not as if the discussion they need to have is something they can get into immediately before getting on a plane with the entirety of the team. By now they’re both used to putting what happens in their personal time into a separate box, so Auston does a double take when Mitch is slow to approach him, even slower to present his trademark grin, like he’s testing the waters with a barely-there layer of expectation emanating from his hesitant “What’s up?”

Of course for Auston it’s easy to push the too-recent past aside; he just takes advantage of the system he’s been utilizing for years - shutting off all the unwanted thoughts the same way someone might flick a switch. He easily pulls Mitch into a half-armed hug, quickly jabbing at his Team Canada baseball cap and leading the way to the jet, trying to keep the tone as light as possible and lead by example. Mitch slowly comes around, and by the time they clamber into their hotel room in San Jose, they’re almost completely back to their normal state of affairs. Almost.

 

They don’t have sex on the roadtrip, which isn’t _incredibly_ unusual. But they don’t talk about what happened at the party either, and by the end of the four days, Mitch is shooting him looks when he thinks Auston isn’t aware, wetting and biting his lips in nervous habit. It makes them both uneasy, the tension silently building from something neither of them will say. By the time the plane touches down in Toronto, Auston’s got a stomach that’s turning on it’s end at an uncomfortably accelerated rate from a haze of something toxic and suffocating whenever he and Mitch are alone together. He promised himself the night of his hangover that he wouldn’t start anything before they were in their own homes and completely rested, but if he knew he’d feel like this… Yeah. He might’ve reconsidered.

They share an Uber home from the airport as per usual, and the atmosphere feels loaded, conversation and eye contact limited to near zero. Auston stares out the window at buildings he’s seen so many times he’s almost memorized, trying not to feel the steady gaze from Mitch on the back of his neck. When Auston does steal a glance over, Mitch is staring at his lap, swallowing hard and scratching slowly at his palms. The sight makes his chest clench painfully, something breaking inside at the way Mitch looks like his inner light is slowly dimming with each passing minute of oppressing indecision. Like he’s defeated.

Eventually they pull up outside Mitch’s apartment, and Auston doesn’t let himself think, gently grabbing Mitch’s wrist before he can run away, thumb rubbing once over the bare skin just to watch the life light up again in the blue eyes that are now staring at him widely. They’re frozen like that for a moment, Auston’s brain scrambled enough that he almost forgets what he wants to say.

“Let me come over tomorrow,” he half asks, voice caught to just above a whisper. “I’ve got a thing with a sponsor in the morning, but I can do later.” He clears his throat, forcing himself to look away from the gaze that’s slowly hypnotising him. “I mean, we can do whatever you want, I just thought-”

“No,” Mitch interrupts quietly, and shakes his head vehemently when Auston’s stomach drops and he visibly stalls. “Sorry, I mean no, that sounds good. Like, yes, yeah, you should come over. Later is good. That works.”

Auston has to remind himself to breathe, laughing nervously and nodding to confirm and realizing how suddenly awkward they feel. It’s an odd sensation to have with the person it’s always felt effortless to be around. Something massive and insurmountable is hanging between them. They both know what it is. Mitch just doesn’t know they’re _both_ aware yet.

“Sounds good,” he says, and his voice sounds tight even to his own ears.

Mitch gives him a half-smile back, his wrist rotating so his fingers softly brush where Auston is still (inexplicably) holding him. Auston snaps his hand back, clenching into a fist and kicking himself for being so caught up in the moment he’d let himself become so completely unregulated. An outstretched touching hand might seem innocent on the surface, but the implications about his own self-control are anything but.

“I better-” Mitch mutters, gesturing toward his apartment and unlocking the car door, fumbling slightly with words.

“Yeah,” Auston agrees, subtly shifting over toward his side, feeling the need for distance. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mitch nods as he gets out, offering one last smile before he shuts the door, but it still doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

xx

Just based on the ingredients combined in the situation, Auston really should’ve expected the meeting to go to shit; and he honestly kind of did.

Just not this quickly.

He arrived at Mitch’s apartment just as the sun was starting to fade into twilight, nervousness thrumming through his veins, and he barely gets his shoes off and mutters a quick hello before he finds himself colliding against a wall with an armful of hockey player pressed flush right against him and licking his way desperately inside Auston’s mouth.

It’s definitely a situation they’ve found themselves in before, one that Auston has enjoyed far more than he probably should’ve in the not too distant past; but this feels different. Forced. Rushed. Normally they make out like this after a long day of temptation that neither of them will admit to out loud, crashing together like cymbals the second they make it through the door until Auston’s hands eventually find their way to Mitch’s ass and they quickly find their way to the bedroom.

But this isn’t sexy, it isn’t seductive. This is Mitch doing everything he can to try and _kiss away_ the problem, as if enough tongue and urgency can completely erase the colossal thing between them. It’s a move that Auston wouldn’t have been surprised to see himself attempt, and not for the first time, he wonders if his bad habits are starting to rub off on Mitch.

Either way he has to stop it, struggling past the lingering urge to let everything else fade away, struggling beyond the easy way out. It's incredibly backwards; Auston moving to pull away to try and talk, and Mitch trying to shake him off and press forward, like he's scared what might happen if they stop. It feels unexpectedly heartbreaking to do it; grabbing Mitch's hands and forcing them to his sides, stopping the kiss in its tracks. What's harder than anything is the expression on Mitch's face, the blatant fear that everything is about to crumble, the embarrassment for pushing, the achingly obvious pain - it's all pulsing from his eyes and written plainly on the lines of his face. Auston wants to reach out and smooth them over, wants to erase all the horrible effects he's caused, but he can't. Or won't, whichever. He just holds Mitch's wrists when he should be dropping them and lets them both breathe for a minute.

“Wait,” Auston starts after a minute, his voice shaky. "We need-"

"I know," Mitch interrupts in a whisper, staring resolutely at the ground. "I know we do. I know I'm acting weird, I know everything's off, I just-" He shakes his head violently, like he's trying to displace a thought, and twists his way out of Auston's grasp, taking a step away. "Just do it quickly," he demands in a broken voice, still looking away. "Say it and get it over with, okay?"

"Say _what_?" Auston's asks sharply, mind whirring and stomach dropping at the quick turn the conversation's taken.

Mitch scoffs, but it sounds choked, and he turns his body away for a minute to run his hand through his hair before shifting back, looking far more in control. "Okay," he finally says, quiet but sure. "Why don't you just talk since you're the one with something to say?"

Auston swallows. Talking has never been his strong suit; it's action that has always been his go-to. But nothing about this situation is normal.

“What do you think is going on here?” he asks carefully, forcing himself to keep a steady gaze.

“You mean other than me throwing myself at you?” Mitch contributes sarcastically, the half-hearted attempt at humour falling flat. “I don’t _know_ , because I don’t know what I can _say_. Basically I really don’t know much of anything right now and I’m starting to lose my goddamned mind trying to figure it out, okay?”

“Mitch-” Auston sighs, scrubbing his face, his limited control of the situation already starting to fray at the edges.

“I’m sorry, alright?” Mitch snaps, face stuck between a glare and a plead. “For whatever I did, whatever you think I did, just- I’m sorry. Can we please just forget anything that might’ve happened and go back to how it was before because I can’t keep trying to forget-”

“I don’t hate you,” Auston blurts, interrupting the steady stream of confusion with his firm voice, the tension bubbling inside his body starting to reach critical. “I don’t fucking hate you, okay?”

Silence. For too long.

And then, finally-

“What?” Mitch whispers, eyes wide. “What did you say?”

Auston breathes out, chest aching. “You said to tell you,” he says impatiently, not sure how much longer his brain will let him talk. “If I remembered. And didn’t hate you. So. This is me telling you.”

Mitch stands frozen, lips parted with pure shock painting his face.

“Mitch,” Auston presses tightly, his stomach starting twist. “Fucking _say something_.”

“Sorry,” Mitch murmurs, visibly coming back to himself.

“Something _other_ than that,” Auston retorts sharply.

Mitch blinks, licking his lips and taking a step forward, eyes flashing with a million questions. He only lets out one. “How much do you remember?”

Auston looks away, the gaze too intense to bear, the memories flooding back. “All of it,” he admits. “I remember every second.”

Mitch nods, taking another small step closer, unafraid. “Me too,” he breathes, carefully boxing Auston back in against the wall, slow enough to let him run away; nothing like the last time. “Every second.”

Everything feels like it’s blurring together – time, space, the world spinning around the sun. It’s all narrowing down, all the unimportant bullshit disappearing until all he can see is Mitch; his body moving closer, his face glowing with something Auston breathlessly identifies unequivocally and impossibly as beauty.

He can’t wait anymore, doesn’t fucking want to, and he presses forward to capture Mitch’s lips with his own, and this time the kiss feels right. Like truth. Urgent for the proper reason, and just messy enough that he can let himself savour the tiny whine of relief Mitch makes when Auston lets his arms encircle his body.

It’s over far too quickly, Auston uncharacteristically wanting the moment to last, but neither of them really goes too far away.

“Did you mean it?” Mitch whispers against his lips, eyes open and careful. “What you said at the party? What you wanted?”

Auston can feel his heart beat throughout his whole body in a hot, accelerated pulse, his brain shut down just enough for him to force out “Yeah”, just enough for him to add “I meant it”.

Mitch lets out a broken sound, diving back in for another kiss and pushing in deep like he wants to stay there. Auston kisses him back with the same emotion, the same fear, the same chaos; wondering what the fuck he’s just done.

He can feel Mitch gently guiding them both back through the apartment and into the bedroom, but he doesn’t stop it, doesn’t push away.

He started this, and now he doesn’t think he has the ability to stop it.

 

They get naked without a word, tossing their clothes to the floor in separate piles. Auston doesn’t let himself look at Mitch’s body, needing that small separation of something off-limits on a list of things he’d never do that is rapidly getting smaller. He thinks he’s probably shaking, knows for certain that Mitch can feel it when he kisses him as slow as he’ll tolerate to try and calm him back down. It’s terrifying how well it works too, how even the messiest rhythm of intertwining tongues can create a quiet oasis within his head like nothing else.

Eventually Auston loses his patience and walks them the final few feet over to the bed, both of them losing their balance and falling onto the mattress tangled together. Mitch smiles against his lips like he’s in heaven at the clumsy move, immediately trying to cover it by trailing a path of kisses across Auston’s jaw, meandering down to nibble at a spot on his neck, arms wrapped loosely around his waist.

“No marks,” Auston reminds, but it comes out breathless, his mind already threatening to head far into the clouds at the attention and impending promise of sex.

“I know,” Mitch murmurs against his skin, reluctantly kissing his way back up to join their lips together again.

They waste some more time getting lost before Auston decides it’s probably enough, pulling away with a restraint that impresses even himself so they can scoot up towards the headboard, his body half-blanketing Mitch’s when they get there.

“You have… everything?” he asks quietly, already knowing the answer.

Mitch nods, reaching over to the drawer Auston’s almost become familiar with now, the same one he opened and accidently found something he shouldn’t have what feels like forever ago.

After a few moments, Mitch leans back again against the pillows from rooting around in the drawer and shutting it, dropping the lube beside his hip and visibly hesitating before holding up a familiar square package. "Do we need this?" he asks quietly, looking Auston straight in the eye.

The air abruptly feels oppressive. Having some sort of buffer between them in probably a good idea, but at the same time it feels a little late to start putting up more walls when he’s already in the process of barreling straight into one while shattering his long-standing rule of ‘absolutely no gay sex’ to fucking pieces. What he wants – what he _truly_ wants – has never been the question; the oppressive forces in his mind don’t give him that luxury. Or at least, they haven’t before. Auston’s not even sure what he wants anymore, all the strings of desire twisted and warped over the years; the things he _should_ want automatically becoming planted as if they were his original idea. But clearly his body wants this, putting himself in this position even against all his internal warning beacons. So he sticks with the truth, just the facts. It’s easier that way.

"They tested me when I did the full physical," Auston finally admits, cringing internally at the memory of the trainer's prying questions a couple months back. "Clean."

Mitch's eyebrows go up, because yeah, that’s probably about the same time they started doing this… whatever it is. "No one since then?" he asks evenly.

Auston stares at him with an intentionally hard expression, silently daring him to read into the answer they both know is true.

Mitch's lips twitch like they want to smile, but pulls himself together at the last second, ducking his head and almost making himself appear bashful.

It's not a look Auston usually sees on him. He tries not to like it; the way the shadows are playing with his cheekbones and how his dark hair is falling over eyes. It's doing things with the chemicals in his brain, emotions almost spilling over from the cage he's set them in. Jesus, they need to get back on track here.

"You?" he asks, barely a whisper, because he's not naïve enough to think that Mitch hasn't been getting any over the course of his already successful hockey career, doesn’t know why he should care so much if he is.

Mitch raises his head again, shaking it with an unexpectedly guarded expression. "Don't need it for me," he says quietly, and leaves it at that.

Now it's Auston's turn to raise an eyebrow in question and let the silence drag on until it's clear he's not letting this go. They both know that Mitch wasn't randomly selected to get a full physical when Auston and a few of the other guys were.

Mitch swallows hard, suddenly averting his eyes. "I did the test privately," he murmurs to the corner of the room. "Got it back last week. All good."

Auston’s heart stops beating. Or at least that’s what it feels like. Because 'last week' implies that Mitch has been anticipating this moment for.... awhile, apparently. Or maybe he was just hoping for it. He’s not sure which one is worse. Whichever way it is, the revelation makes Auston’s muscles lock up just the same, chest abruptly feeling like someone's sitting it. The clarity Mitch has – the one to see where they’re going before they’re actually there – it seems like some sort of divine power compared to Auston’s own brain that likes to black out in self-defence if he ever dares to think about what’s happening between them. He feels like he has a defect; he just doesn’t know if it’s the fact that he _can’t_ think about things like this, or that maybe he _wants_ to. The questions and implications and expectations weigh heavily on his body, trying so hard to crush him under that one admittance of a test taken just so they could do this with nothing obstructing the feel of fucking bare.

But then Mitch's eyes are back, trying to find his and latching on the instant they do, the familiar certainty and calm coming off in waves. "You're good," he says quietly, reassuring, one hand slowly stroking the length of his spine like he's hoping the touch will unlock the hard muscles.

Normally this the kind of shit Auston would snap at him for, pull away, sharply remind him he doesn't care. But this time he doesn't. He _can't_. He needs it too much; drinks it in hungrily with the tiny part of himself that doesn't revolt when words and touches like that are given. He feels his body respond in ways he doesn't want to be real; loosening, opening, settling, breathing evening out, chest unclenching, mind going back to that comfortable static it's always in when they're together like this.

"You're good," Mitch whispers again, hand still lazily tracing a line on his back, and for some reason that tone with those words make Auston want to blush. It sounds intimate. Too intimate, maybe, but everything is tingling too wonderfully for him to form the word ‘no’.

“We don’t have to do this,” Mitch reminds him after a few long moments, and his face shows that same sincerity, that same enormous level of care that always makes Auston want to look away.

“It’s fine,” he gets out, and it’s probably the most conversation he’s ever allowed them to have when they hook up. Talking leads to feelings, and he avoids both of them whenever possible. Action is better. And he knows what comes next.

Auston moves one hand from where it’s been bracing himself up and takes the condom still clenched in Mitch’s hand, tossing it carelessly to the other side of the room.

If they’re doing this, they’re doing it all in.

He watches Mitch’s eyes darken with the definitive gesture, hand going still on Auston’s back. They stay like that, staring and knowing and waiting until Auston realizes he’s been letting himself stare into another guy’s eyes for almost a full minute and getting off on the growing electricity between them, and quickly breaks the stillness to press forward, locking their lips together.

Mitch makes this low noise that almost sounds predatory as he yanks Auston’s body all the way forward and down to deepen the kiss, and it makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck. They’re both already mostly hard, and they get forced together when Auston half loses his balance with the insistent pulling. Mitch is completely unapologetic about it though, licking his way into Auston’s mouth and locking his arms low around his hips to keep them close.

Auston only lets the kissing last so long though, always trying to limit the time that his brain rules as dangerous activity, and Mitch lets out a tiny cut-off whine of complaint when he pulls away. The sound makes him want to shudder, and he just barely manages to supress it as he scrambles to look for the tube of lube. Mitch apparently catches on to what he’s doing and wordlessly tosses it to him, eyes flashing with a million different emotions. Auston tries not to look at that either, heart racing as he slides down the bed and watches Mitch get his feet flat and knees up in preparation.

Everything suddenly feels a little bit more real, but at least they’ve done this part before (if not in this position). It’s a familiar feeling of slicking up a finger and quickly working it in, hearing Mitch pant as he asks for another, keeping a steady hand on his hips when he start involuntarily bucking up into the thrusts. Auston swallows as he gets in a third, going slower this time because he’s not a fucking asshole, but thinking wildly that his dick is still way bigger than that.

“Go four then,” Mitch says tightly, and Auston’s head shoots up, because he didn’t think he was saying that out loud. Mitch’s chest is going fast, and he’s looking down with this ridiculous determination on his face, mixed perfectly with flushed cheeks and sweaty hair sticking to his skin. Auston looks away quickly, the explicit picture in front of him almost too much to take, and works his fingers faster, stretching them until he thinks his already sporadically fluttering ass can take another. He pauses after gradually pulling out, chest tightening at how Mitch lets out a clearly unhappy exhale, and just watches the hole contract slightly with the loss of his fingers with a strange sense of awe. He might never get used to that. He hopes he doesn’t.

“Matts, c’mon,” Mitch breathes, flexing his no doubt stiffening muscles and pressing his head into the pillows in anticipation.

Auston has to physically shake off the weird reverie he was in, quickly reaching back for lube and getting the four fingers as slippery as possible. He rests his dry hand instinctively at the top of Mitch’s inner thigh for some kind of reassurance as he slowly presses them in, unable to drag his eyes away from where he’s watching them disappear. He hears a sharp intake of breath about halfway there and he freezes, but Mitch just gets out a strained “no, no, don’t stop, I’m good”, trying desperately to shift his hips down to speed it up. Auston releases a shaky exhale and keeps pushing forward, his free hand smoothing along Mitch’s skin comfortingly without him honestly telling it to.

The moment when he’s gets all the way in feels like a miracle, but the moment when he experimentally spreads his fingers inside the hot vice and Mitch flat out yells, bearing down and thrusting up – that changes everything. Auston brains stops working for split second, and then everything seems to happen in a flash; him slowly pulling his fingers out just to shove sharply back in, Mitch’s quiet moans, picking up the pace until they’re both beyond ready.

When he pulls out, Mitch doesn’t make a secret of his distress this time, groaning openly and scrubbing his face with both hands up into his damp hair. Auston gets a flashing urge to crawl up and kiss every single spot he can reach on Mitch’s face and neck, try to calm the storm so clearly wracking his body, but he settles for rubbing a thumb along his hip in he hopes is a comforting gesture. Even a tiny thing like that sets off his leering warning system, so he reluctantly takes his hand back and leans over to grab a few tissues from the bedside table, quickly wiping off his fingers. He’s almost done when Mitch nudges him gently with a foot.

“Put it on yourself too,” he says quietly, like he’s worried about making Auston feel stupid.

Auston blinks at him for second, processing.

“It makes it hurt less,” Mitch explains, not a hint of judgement in his voice. “Goes in easier.” He hesitates for second before tacking on, “Feels better.”

Auston nods, a brief panic going off in his head at the prospect of hurting Mitch by doing this. Maybe that shows, because Mitch gives him a tiny smile and coaches “Just go slow. I’ll tell you.”

Auston nods again, a bit less worried, and reaches again for the lube. It’s a weird sensation that leaves him shivery, coating his incredibly sensitive dick with the partly-warmed substance, and he dries his hands off and throws the tissues into the growing pile by the garbage bin in the corner before sitting back on his heels between Mitch’s legs, rubbing his palms over his own thighs nervously.

Mitch scoots up a bit on the bed and takes one look at Auston before motioning silently with his hands to come up.

He probably should’ve guessed what was coming from the look in his eyes, but Auston pretends he didn’t even as Mitch quickly pulls him down into a kiss, slightly less frantic than the others, but every bit as hot. They fall into a rhythm quickly, bodies back to thrumming with need, and any remaining anxiety seems to melt away with the sheer heat they’re emanating. It’s like reminder of how easily they work together, and it’s exactly what Auston needs to pump himself back up and temporarily short-circuit his commanding and over-thinking brain.

When they break away they’re both panting, but Mitch manages to catch his breath enough to ask “You wanna like this?” looking down at their positions with him on his back.

Honestly, Auston’s head is still spinning, and it’s not like he knows enough to say otherwise, so he just nods his head curtly and leans back enough that he can get his hips aligned. He looks quickly back up at Mitch one last time for consent and gets a strong nod and piecing eyes in return. Auston closes his eyes for moment to breathe, and makes his body move before he can catch up to what he’s actually doing.

At first he’s worried that it won’t go in, but then something seems to breach and Mitch is taking in a sharp breath and there’s pressure so tight around the head of his dick it’s unreal. Warm hands press against his back and the nails start to dig in as he keeps pressing forward, going as slow as he possibly can with the incredible sensation surrounding him.

“Holy fuck,” Mitch breathes as he bottoms out, and Auston lets out a tight laugh on an exhale, because there’s really no other words to use except those. Every inch of him feels like it’s trembling, overloading with sheer amount of grip on the most sensitive part of himself.

It’s absolutely amazing.

“It hurt?” he asks quietly, finally opening his eyes but staring down at Mitch’s chest rather than his face.

“Fuck no,” Mitch whispers, twitching his hips a little to punctuate the statement, and it’s like lighting a match, both of them keening at the glimpse of fire.

“Move,” Mitch demands, voice caught in his throat. “Go easy, but fucking move Matts, c’mon.”

It’s all the permission he needs. Auston pulls out slowly, biting his tongue at the drag, and pushes back in, darting his eyes up quick enough to watch Mitch throw his head back and whisper “More”. He thrusts back in again, a bit harder this time, repeating it once, twice, three times before Mitch releases this whine that sounds far too much like his name.

And that’s about when his control snaps.

Auston feels a moan build up in his throat, doesn’t even know if he holds it back in time, but even if he does, that’s the only part of him that’s holding back. The thrusts keep getting faster, harder, and the friction they’ve got going feels like fucking heaven between them. His heart is pounding to a staccato beat, his hips not too far behind, and the sounds that are being released into the air of skin slapping against skin sounds utterly obscene.

Mitch just keeps moaning and twitching and grabbing at the sheets with tight fists like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Honestly, Auston isn’t that much father off, eyes pressing shut until he’s seeing stars and gasping like he’s forgotten what air is. He feels Mitch hesitate before wrapping his legs around Auston’s waist, using the leverage to try and pull him in further, and holy _fuck_ , does it work.

Auston takes the new angle and sinks in deeper on the next thrust, hitting a spot that makes Mitch’s body go tight, a high-pitched sound piercing the air for a split second until Mitch snaps his mouth shut. But that noise makes some primal in Auston growl, and he pulls back only to slam into that same spot again, not even sure what he’s doing but needing to do it just the same. Mitch shudders violently underneath him, eyes falling shut, visibly trying and failing to keep back all the broken noises spilling from his lips in bits and pieces at the overstimulation.

It doesn’t take long after that for them both to get right on the edge, Auston feeling the sweat falling down his body almost as clearly as the urge to touch everywhere he can on Mitch’s body, just to see what it feels like as it writhes in the pleasure that’s he’s causing. But he keeps his hands clawed into the sheets as he speeds up as fast as he can, working almost entirely on an instinct he didn’t know he possessed.

“I can’t,” Mitch gets out, and it sounds more like a whimper. “Aus, I _can’t_.”

The use of his name like that in a voice like this is the exact reason Auston never calls Mitch ‘Marns’ when they’re together. Never again will he be able to hear it any other way. Never will it sound quite the same after he knows its top potential.

“I’m gonna-” Mitch cries, and it comes out so distressed that Auston’s chest tightens.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, the overwhelming need to say something winning out over the compulsion to stay quiet. “Me too.”

A low groan leaks from Mitch’s mouth as he bucks his hips up sporadically, thrashing his head on the pillow. All it takes is one perfectly placed thrust at just right force to send him spiraling, meaningless words and phrases falling from his lips as he clenches down on Auston’s dick, face absolutely lost in the utter euphoria of it all.

 _Gorgeous,_ a hushed voice whispers in his head.

Whether it’s the added pressure or the shamelessly explicit writhing body beneath him, it’s not even a full three thrusts before Auston’s gone too, his whole body seizing as he spills right inside Mitch’s hole, mouth going slack and eyes falling shut, wave after wave of glorious beauty washing through him. He just barely manages to direct his fall when he feels his muscles failing, dropping onto the bed beside Mitch with his heart still going a mile a minute. He grasps onto the feeling, almost begging it not to leave, begging the come-down not to arrive, _begging_ to let him stay this close for just a little bit longer.

And it _does_.

The fogginess expands to encompass what feels like the entire apartment; the whole world minimized to this feeling of floating through time and space. A tiny part of his brain feels something latch around the pinky finger of his right hand, almost like another finger, and it’s not until then that he realizes how closely his hand fell to Mitch’s own. He’s too out of it to even think, but he feels his own finger link up with the one around it, like he’s trying to hold on with everything he has to give, however miniscule that amount actually is.

They stay there like that for awhile, clinging to their connection and drowning in the sounds of two panting bodies slowly coming down together. It feels like they just went through something far too important to just slap on the label of ‘sex’. In this little pocket of time, Auston’s world seems to have shifted, turning on its side to show something so much more significant than fucking, so much more powerful than apathy. He registers Mitch turning his head on the pillow to face him, his finger giving a little squeeze, but Auston can’t move, can’t go that far, can’t leave himself open to be seen when he’s this taken apart. So he closes his eyes and tries to get lost again in the feeling that blissfully decided to stick around for so much longer than he’s been given before, wondering somewhere just how long it will last.

Of course, the answer is obvious: it lasts just long enough to hurt even more when it’s ripped away.

xx

He waits until Mitch has fallen asleep before he leaves. Not just because he wants to make a clean getaway without having to field questions, but because he can’t physically force himself to get up and walk away until long after Mitch loses his battle with unconsciousness. His body is exhausted and his muscles even more sore, but his mind really feels like it’s taken the heaviest hit. His brain would normally be screaming by now, but it just feels blindsided by the level of deviation Auston has forced it through. There’s a deep instinct that’s still there though, urging him up off the bed and slowly bringing him back to those old ways burnt into him like a brand.

He stands facing away from the bed after getting up extraordinarily carefully, using up every ounce of self-control not to turn around and see Mitch’s sleeping form still marked with the tell-tale signs of sex. It takes a solid minute until he’s sure enough to take the few steps forward to use Mitch’s ensuite to clean up, not bothering to switch on the lights. The darkness seems safer for more than one reason.

He gathers his clothes from the bedroom floor, eyes trained steadily downward as he gets dressed. He pauses at the threshold to the hallway, one hand braced on the doorjamb.

 _One look can’t hurt_ , a voice whispers, meek and pleading with it’s assertive and overbearing counterpart. _We’re still walking away._

But one look might make Auston want to stay. He knows that. He despises that reality, but knows it nonetheless. So he takes a step forward. And then another, and another, and tries to ignore the pain radiating outward from his chest.

It’s time to go.

Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand _exhale_. Remember to breathe. I know that was kind of a lot (they finally had sex, holy shit) and I'm inexplicably really nervous about this upload, so please lemme know what you think :) I'm really super looking forward to talking to you guys again, and thank you as always for all the love and kudos and comments you send my way. You wonderful humans continue to keep me going  <3
> 
> Chapter title is from 'Saturn' by Sleeping at Last. Gorgeous song. Very atmospheric.


	9. Lights Down Low

He and Mitch are never having sex again. That’s what Auston tells himself.

It’s not like he didn’t enjoy it. No, that’s pretty much the opposite reason. It was _too_ good. Too much. Too overwhelming. Too perfect.

Too close to what he always imagined it could be.

It’s the breathtaking intensity that scares him – flat out terrifies him, if he’s being honest. The way in which he felt a connection forming between them like they were linked through their very souls isn’t something Auston’s ever come close to experiencing in his 21 years on Earth, and just the memory of it two days later still brings a fucking tidal wave of emotions that he doesn’t even want to begin to properly identify.

Sex made him want to a lot of stupid shit; stuff he’s well aware are things not on the table. Stuff like pressing his mouth against Mitch’s after they’d both fallen over the edge and getting the sweet taste of satisfied pleasure on his tongue. Stuff like an overwhelming urge to push aside all the years of conditioning and discipline and not walk away. Stuff like running his hands over Mitch’s body as it twitched and shook through the aftershocks of his orgasm, comforting and sure. Stuff like whispering nonsensical words in a calming voice against Mitch’s lips just to feel a smile form against his mouth at how far lost they both were in the bliss. Stuff like closing his eyes after it was all over and letting himself drift until the sunlight was streaming in.

None of which he can do.

Making himself resist the urge to surrender to sleep and bask in the glow of Mitch’s presence until morning was without a doubt the hardest desire to confront though. It seems crazy, considering the scenario was something that Auston never thought he’d seriously entertain, but in that moment, after drifting away through the fog and holding onto Mitch in that tiny way… He came close. Too close, probably.

But he made himself do it nonetheless, unlatching his pinky from Mitch’s and driving home missing that little connection like he was missing his own limb. It felt like a hole in his gut, empty and unrelenting. He knew he had to preserve the idea that the sex didn’t mean anything, _had_ to get up and leave to prove that it was still right; but still. He hadn’t got much sleep that night. Mostly he tried not to think about what Mitch’s face would look like when he woke up and saw the bed empty. Whether or not Mitch should probably expect that outcome by now, the image haunted him anyway.

 _It’s just his carnal side taking over_ , Auston tells himself; so many intense chemicals firing in all the right ways to make him _think_ that emotions are really at play. All the thoughts and desires now bubbling up inside his head are simply an illusion in the worst possible fucking way. And if he wants to avoid the sort of hellish chaos he’s going through right now, then the solution is simple: never _ever_ have sex with Mitch Marner again.

Easy. Auston can do that. Definitely. No sex, no illusion of feelings, no issue. Problem solved.

Now all he has to do is stick to it.

xx

It’s one of the only times this month the Leafs get three off days in a row without a game, and the team is determined to make the most of it.

“Move marathon,” Naz declares definitively in the dressing room after practice the morning of the first day. “You guys. My place. Tonight.”

Immediate rumbles of agreement and woops of excitement erupt around the room, mini-discussions already commencing around exactly what will be marathoned. 

“Who’s bringing food?” Marty calls over the chaos, clearly excluding himself and his total lack of ability to cook.

“I volunteer Mo’s chip dip!” Gards offers loudly with a smirk toward his former roommate, earning a glare. “What?” he protests with innocent eyes that Auston assumes gets him out of a lot, “It’s good!”

“If it’s so good, you should actually learn to _make it_ _yourself_ ,” Mo counters, throwing a fresh towel to punctuate his statement. “But yeah, fine, I’ll bring it.”

“And I’ll bring the chips,” Gards compromises with a fist bump.

“Done and done,” Naz agrees with a nod.

“I’m good to do beer if I can bring Kappy,” Willy barters with a hopeful expression, the Finn the last one out of the showers as usual.

Naz rolls his eyes but grins as he acquiesces. “Of course, pair up with the newbie Leaf. Stupid me, I forgot that if you two separate for more than two seconds that you’ll both turn to stone.”

Willy presents him quickly with his middle finger, but bounds away to begin his lengthy hair styling routine with a smile, not bothering to correct the chirp.

“Are you doing this tonight?” Mitch asks Auston, plopping down next to him with eternally sparkling eyes and high spirits, still wearing a towel. It’s virtually impossible _not_ to get spontaneously happy around him.

“Obviously,” he responds with a hint of a smile budding. “You?”

“Duh,” Mitch scoffs, “Free food, free alcohol, free company; I’m in. You heading home first though?”

Auston thinks for a split second. “Yeah, I should change and grab a few things. You mind dropping me off, or are you headed straight there?”

“No worries,” Mitch reassures him, “I’ve gotta head back to my apartment too. I can pick you up on my way to Naz’s place too if you want actually.”

Auston raises an eyebrow. “Are you offering not to drink all night?” he asks amusedly, raising his voice over an smattering of loud movie debates coming from the corner.

Mitch’s expression dims a little, apparently forgetting that driving one way meant having to drive back as well, just as Auston suspected. “Uhhh,” he starts eloquently, before backtracking and suggesting, “Uber together?” in an apologetic tone.

Auston’s straight face cracks, managing to get out “deal,” in between laughs at the look on Mitch’s face.

“Just get ready, you enormous asshole,” Mitch mutters, but his lips are fighting a smile again as he gets up to finish getting changed.

“Love you too, Marns,” he calls sarcastically, pulling on his jeans. He tries not to notice the way Mitch’s gait falters ever so slightly at his words, tries not to overthink what just came out naturally as a teasing jab between friends; he just swallows the budding emotions and prepares a short list of what he needs to grab from home before tonight.

That’s all.

And if he checks to see if Mitch’s eyes are still on him a moment later, that doesn’t have to mean anything either. (It’s harder to deny that it’s nothing when the pair of blues still studying him carefully makes him shiver right down to his core.) But still. Auston’s in control. He’s got this. No stress, just movies.

 _Focus_ , a demanding voice whispers in his head.

He tries not to take it as a bad sign when he almost takes that as permission to fully take in Mitch’s gaze.

The lines are blurring.

xx

The party is in full swing long into the night at Naz’s apartment; Kappy, Willy, Gards, Mo, Marty, Brownie, Mitch, and Auston crammed into his massive living room to drink, eat, laugh at nothing, and, of course, marathon movies on the ridiculously enormous plasma screen TV. They decided somehow on marathoning the Mission Impossible franchise (Auston knows better than to ask who won and lost that argument), and he ends up wedged at the end of the long couch with Mitch pushed up against him.

Sitting this close together never used to faze him, but now Auston’s mind keeps flashing back to the night before when he had Mitch pressed along the length of his _own_ couch, both of them rubbing each other off so hard he’s pretty sure they blacked out.

Or maybe that’s just the excuse he’s using for why his hand momentarily ended up wrapped around Mitch’s lower back to keep him close as he came down from his orgasm.

Either way, even if Auston was alone, the last thing he would want to be thinking about is how it would feel if he and Mitch were naked right now. The fact that his mind keeps flicking back to that topic when he’s in a room full of his teammates is downright concerning.

But Mitch, psychic as always, just throws a chip at his chest and steals a pretzel from his plate, subtly whispering “Stop thinking so much. You’re so loud its overpowering the movie and interrupting Emmanuelle Béart, how dare you?”

Auston rolls his eyes and eats the chip that was thrown at him, crunching in Mitch’s ear just to be obnoxious. But the mindless screwing around settles the unbalance in his mind, and that combined with the excellent choice in beer (he expects nothing less from Willy and Kappy) lets him finally start to relax and enjoy himself.

 

They get through the movies one by one with short breaks for impromptu reviews and trips to the kitchen and bathroom, but by the time they get to movie four out of five, both Marty and Gards tap out, citing that their respective fiancée and wife are screaming at them over text to get their asses home.

“Whipped,” Mitch comments with a grin aimed at Marty, and gets a pillow whipped at his face for his trouble, much to the loud amusement of Willy and Kappy, both of whom have probably drank far too much (as usual).

“Why don’t you ask Lucy to let you have a later curfew?” Mo contributes with a faux-innocent smile, and Jake flips him off as he downs the last of his beer, apparently not appreciating the suggestion.

“Just wait till you guys have a kid,” Naz muses devilishly, “Leo and Bozie can never come out with the boys anymore. They’ve probably forgotten what fun means after 9 P.M.”

“Oh, fuck off the bunch of you,” Marty mutters with a smirk, grabbing his jacket from the overflowing rack and pulling open the door for Gards.

As much as everyone loves to talk shit, halfway through the fourth movie seems to be a wall for a lot of the guys; Willy abruptly passing out on Kappy’s shoulder even as gunshots echo from the blasting speakers, Mo almost dropping his bottle because his eyes keep closing, and Brownie looks like he’s twitching awake every ten or so minutes. When Willy starts snoring loudly, Naz pauses the film and everyone turns to obviously gape at Kappy, who has a look of long-suffering on his face.

“Do you wear earplugs at night?” Auston asks him bluntly, breaking the relative silence, and Mitch starts cackling.

Kappy snorts and brushes Willy’s hair off his forehead with a surprising amount of gentleness to partly wake the Swede up. “Willy,” he whispers in a loud voice, grinning up at the onlookers, “ _Sjöö Sandström_ ’s having a half-off everything sale, but it’s only for the next two hours.”

“Wait, what?” Willy exclaims in a scratchy voice, snapping awake with wide eyes, sitting up on his own with miraculous speed, and Kappy dissolves into an explosion of laughter as everyone looks on, slightly confused.

“The fuck is So Shantstom?” Brownie asks slowly, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables and rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

“Willy’s – favourite – watch – brand,” Kappy gets out in between heaving laughs, and the rest of the boys join in on the hooting while Willy watches them all with half-annoyed half-disappointed glares.

“You promised you would stop doing that!” he whines, but that only makes the collective giggling worse.

“Sorry babe, couldn’t resist,” Kappy eventually returns with a shit-eating grin, and Auston knows the term is one the Scandinavian roommates throw around towards each other, but it still makes his brain skip at the casual use.

Willy makes a disgusted sound, but stands up and stretches, reluctantly admitting “I think I need bed.”

“No shit, kid,” Mo comments with a smile, but he gets up too, putting the bowl of chips he was eating on the coffee table. “I think I might need bed too though, so I shouldn’t mock you too much. Although _, I_ don’t snore.”

“I’ll be asking Jake for confirmation about that tomorrow,” Willy sniffs.

“C’mon guys!” Mitch protests, looking mildly dismayed at the developing situation. “We still have a movie and a half to go!”

“Mitchy,” Mo says patiently, reaching for the back of the couch for his jacket, “Not all of us are the energizer bunny.”

Mitch scoffs, and turns toward Auston with a look like _You better not be bailing on me too_.

“I’m good to go,” Auston reassures him emphatically, and it’s not a lie.

Mitch stares at Brownie next with imploring eyes, and Auston’s been on the receiving of that look often enough to know how utterly impossible it is to say no to.

Brownie stifles an untimely yawn, but gets out “I’ll try?”

 

Turns out the redhead lasts about twenty minutes after Mo leaves with Willy and Kappy before falling asleep on the now-vacant loveseat, arm splayed out over the side so his fingers brush the floor. Naz pauses the movie once again at a decent stopping spot to drag Brownie to his guest room, muttering something about impromptu unwanted houseguests.

It’s not until they’re alone in the room that Auston realizes that he and Mitch are still pressed up against each other on the empty couch, acres of room available seeing as Naz took sole possession of the comfy armchair and everyone else left a while ago. Mitch seems to simultaneously come to the same realization, staring at the space with something like guilt in his eyes.

“You want me to move?” he asks quietly, and there’s an achingly sad tone in his voice.

 _Yes!_ Auston’s brain screams. “It’s fine,” he actually says, but it sounds uncertain even to his own ears. Maybe he could come to terms with this if they were alone, but they’re not. They have a teammate who will be back any second now who could very well make the same observation that somehow escaped them both for so long.

Mitch shifts over a little bit anyway, reading between the lines, shifting smoothly to make it look like he was just grabbing his beer from the coffee table but not settling back the same way, leaving a significant gap between them.

It’s colder like this.

 _Isn’t that what you wanted?_ A sarcastic voice asks, and Auston swiftly tells it to fuck off. Mostly because it’s right. This is what he wanted, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

Mitch takes a quick glance back his way, face softening at what he finds. Silently he tucks his legs underneath him so that his feet are poking underneath the muscle of Auston’s thigh, providing a covert point of contact. He pauses another second before spilling the remaining all dressed chips onto Auston’s plate so he’s forced to lean over every time he wants one.

It’s scary how quickly Mitch can come up with these things.

Even still, a tiny smile has started growing on Auston’s lips without him being entirely aware of it appearing there in the first place; the muscles that had started tensing unwinding with the new adjustments.

The next time Mitch looks over subtly, he can’t smother his smile fast enough before Auston sees it. It looks oddly satisfied.

Naz naturally chooses that moment to come back in, plopping back down in his chair with a sigh and wordlessly pressing play to resume the film.

 

They get though the movie with commentary coming strictly from Mitch (and a few one-liners from Auston), the plate of chips getting empty between them two of them extraordinarily quickly. They agree to share another beer, and Auston expects for Mitch to grab a glass or something, but he just reaches over every so often to take a swig from the bottle. Auston should probably find that gross, should definitely do something about how Mitch keeps subtly bracing one hand on his hip to reach his drink that rests on side table, but at this point he’s tilted back one too many to do much of anything except try to keep his own body in check. The bottle empties rapidly too; long before the credits roll. It probably has more to do with the excuse for close contact than the actual need to drink.

When the movie ends and Mitch starts chanting “last one” with a little too much excitement even for Auston, Naz doesn’t move, just stares at the ceiling with a quiet groan.

“Dude, come on!” Mitch protests in a whine, picking up a bowl and throwing an errant piece of popcorn out of it at Naz’s head. “There’s only one movie left!”

“You can’t start something and not finish it!” Auston backs him up, reaching around Mitch’s body into the bowl to rapid-fire a few kernels at Naz as well. “C’mon man, this is the big-leagues; rule number one is don’t start a fight you can’t finish!”

Mitch cackles, turning his head with a grin, and wow. They are way too close, and it’s probably Auston’s fault, leaning in to grab the popcorn and never actually backing away. But the alcohol gives him a second skin of _I don’t give a shit_ , so he grins back widely, heart inexplicably pounding, reaching forward for more ammo and brushing their bodies together. It sends sparks through the thick layer of intoxication. He only gets one more perfectly aimed shot off before Naz groans again, louder this time, putting up a hand in surrender.

“Yo! Okay, Mouse, can you please just calm your partner-in-crime before I murder him in the morning when I can actually see straight?”

“Alright, one: don’t call me Mouse,” Mitch says, reaching up to grab Auston’s hands out of the air before another kernel can reach the target. “And two: if he stops, can we watch the last movie?”

Auston’s frozen in place, trying to wade through the mixed emotions flooding his brain at the way Mitch is holding his hands in place, natural as breathing. He knows that making a deal out of something so objectively trivial by pulling sharply away or letting his mouth drop open would be weird though, so he shoves down the excitement, the trepidation, the fear, the longing, and yanks his mind back to the present, forcing his body to go loose again.

“No,” Naz states firmly, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Because I for one _haven’t_ been taking my morning cereal with RedBull or however the fuck you always have so much energy, but I’m about to crash, and Brownie beat you two to my guest room.”

“You’re kicking us out?” Mitch protests in disbelief, looking overly offended, and Auston scoffs incredulously to accent his question. It’s not often that Naz can be out-partied.

“I was visiting my family the day before yesterday,” Naz reminds them testily with narrow eyes, evidently not enjoying their line of thinking. “Right after practice. I drove all night to get in to make practice yesterday morning, and then got almost no sleep last night because of a water main breaking outside my place, and then another practice today, and then the movie night, and now I’m here.” He looks at them with a challenge in his expression, like: _So, how have your past two days been?_

Mitch has the decency to look sheepish, and Auston rolls his eyes, muttering “Fine, we’ll go,” under his breath as he gets off the couch and reaches for his phone to summon an Uber. “What’s your address again?”

Naz recites it slowly as he watches Mitch collect various beer bottles scattered around the room for a minute before gently objecting “Mitchy, it’s fine,” with an amused sort of affection.

“I mean, what do you think’s gonna happen when you go and made me feel bad?” Mitch protests, sticking out his bottom lip in mock depression.

“Oh my god, dude,” Naz says on an exhale, but he smiles and gets up from his chair to help gather empty cans, depositing them in the pile Mitch started in the kitchen.

Auston grabs empty chips bags as he waits for their car to arrive, feeling obligated to help with the spontaneous clean-up duty until he gets the notification he’s been waiting for.

“Ride’s here,” he calls, swiping away the alert on his phone.

“Okay you two,” Naz sighs, dumping a bowl of mostly-finished popcorn in the organic bin. “Get out of my fucking house so I can sleep for at least eight hours.”

Mitch bear hugs him, much to Naz’s supposed annoyance, but everyone knows his hugs are legendary and any frustration shown by their teammates is purely for performance’s sake. Auston gives him a handshake and a half-bodied hug, parting with a “That was fun, but maybe take a nap first next time?” making Mitch snort in laughter like a weirdo.

He can hear Naz resignedly muttering “I’m surrounded by assholes” as the door shuts, and Auston grins, striding quickly down the steps and down the walkway with Mitch beside him.

They’re about halfway to Mitch’s apartment, chatting about nothing when Auston admits “I’m actually kinda pissed we didn’t finish the series though.”

“You mean the movies?” Mitch confirms, and Auston nods. “Yeah, I know, the last one’s the best too.”

“I’m not even that tired,” Auston points out.

“Me neither,” Mitch agrees vehemently. “Dude, I thought we could count on Kadri to hold out more than anyone else on the team! He’s always the last one standing.”

“Yeah,” Auston agrees wistfully, and there’s a few minutes of silence before Mitch opens his mouth to speak, and then stops, thinking better of it. “What?” he asks, watching the non-speech develop.

“It’s nothing,” Mitch says, shaking his head, but when Auston raises an eyebrow in question he relents. “It’s just- I have the last movie at my house. We could always just…”

The sentence trails off, but Auston’s already grinning, immediately setting Mitch off as well. “Hell yeah, we could,” he states definitively. “Let’s finish this off properly.”

“Hell yeah,” Mitch agrees, reaching out a fist bump.

So apparently the night isn’t over quite yet.

xx

When they finally settle down to watch the final installment on the couch in the darkened room (Mitch had lowered them with waggling eyebrows insisting something about “ambiance”) Auston doesn’t even want to know how late it is – or how _early_ it is, realistically. He watches Mitch switch in between a few different positions, unable to settle, before obviously swinging his gaze over to the other end of the couch in silent question.

“Fine,” Auston sighs, stretching out to put his feet on the coffee table and lifting his arms in permission, because really, this doesn’t have to mean anything unless he makes it mean something.

Mitch’s eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting him to roll over that easily, but he plops down so his head is on Auston’s lap, grabbing a pillow to hold against his chest, turning slightly so he can see the screen. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and there’s a layer of contentedness in his voice that’s tinged only vaguely by confusion.

“Don’t worry about it,” Auston mutters back, trying to focus on the movie, and the words are more like a reminder to himself, honestly. He was kind of expecting Mitch to put his _feet_ on his lap, not his head; but they're stuck like this now, so he'll just have to cope. There’s the small issue about what to do with his hands now; which are still hovering awkwardly in the air and out of the way. He knows what half of his brain _wants_ to - absentmindedly stroke them through the strands of Mitch’s hair that he now knows are just as soft as he thought they would be, fingers stilling intermittently as the plot gets tense. The other half of his brain wants him to sit on them so he won’t be tempted to do exactly that. He settles instead for the middle ground; resting one hand harmlessly in his lap with his other arm stretching out along the back of the couch.

It’s going great for awhile; Mitch interrupting occasionally to twist his head around and quote his favourite lines, Auston calling him a giant nerd with a smirk every time. It’s comfortable, easy, just like always.

But then everything’s quiet for a bit, which, really, that’s completely fine by his standards to actually hear the characters say their own dialogue for once, but he doesn’t really notice anything weird until he casually mentions how Tom Cruise’s character says something that so obnoxious that it reminds him of Willy on a good hair day, and Mitch is silent. Auston looks down, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, because usually he’s all over stuff like that.

“Marns?” he asks quietly, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest that might actually be a little _too_ even. He hesitates for a second before gently pulling on his shoulder a bit. Mitch goes easily onto his back, like his whole body is malleable, and only then does Auston see that his eyes have closed, face peaceful and drifting away into what he can only assume is peaceful slumber, based on the tiny smile on his lips. It takes a few moments to fully process the facts of the situation.

Mitch is entirely and completely asleep. With the lights off. While they’re alone. At night. _On Auston’s lap._

Auston’s stops breathing for a second, to be perfectly honest. He quickly mutes the movie, trying not to jostle them too much, for some reason finding it of the utmost importance that Mitch isn’t disturbed right now. That _they_ aren’t disturbed.

No one has ever fallen asleep on top of him like this before. Like, maybe his sisters, but that pretty much feels like the opposite thing as this. A massive wave of protectiveness keeps washing over him, like now he has a responsibility to keep this person safe and happy and experiencing good dreams; and Auston for the life of him cannot push it away. It just keeps on coming, insisting on him taking up the post, eroding away the flashing red warning lights that this could lead to somewhere excessively complicated and potentially emotional. But after a while it appears he has little choice, so he allows that need to protect to take over just for a little bit, finally letting the corner of his lips tilt upward as he looks down at Mitch’s sleeping face.

The movie keeps playing, but Auston’s not really watching anymore, momentarily entranced with the hypnotising rise and fall of Mitch’s chest, the flickering of his eyelids, the occasional twitching muscle, the way he unconsciously shifts himself forward so that he’s closer to Auston’s body. The silence doesn’t feel oppressive; it’s more like a blanket that helps wrap them together, the glowing colours that emanate from the screen only adding to the ambiance. It feels oddly serene, just sitting here and existing in a pocket of time that’s meant just for them to breathe and sleep and _be_.

When the credits start rolling, Auston knows what he has to do, but he’s finding himself oddly reluctant to do it. He’s telling himself that it’s more a confusion of how to do it, as opposed to being averse to the idea itself. It’s a lie, but that’s probably fine at this point. He won’t be an asshole, scaring Mitch awake or anything, although that might be the proper ‘best friend’ way to go. Past that, his brain is stalled, still fighting the fact that he’s gotten himself in this position in the first place.

So Auston doesn’t let himself think too much, just follows the instincts that same wave of protectiveness has given him (or maybe just brought to life from what he didn’t know he already had). He swallows once, slowly raising a hand before tentatively reaching down to stroke across Mitch’s cheek and into his thick, dark hair; all of it impossibly soft. Mitch makes a quiet sound, twitching a little at the touch, but his eyes stay closed, so Auston tries to settle his absurdly racing heart and goes back for another sweep from cheek to hair, gently saying his name into the silence. This time Mitch _leans_ into his touch, lips ghosting further toward a bigger smile, and Auston feels his chest constrict, lips parting as he watches the slow and easy movement.

“Mitch,” he says again, a little louder, a bit more desperate under the panic that comes with emotions like these. “Mitchy, c’mon, wake up.”

Mitch hums sleepily, nosing Auston’s hand and twisting a little so his fingers are back in his hair, like even when he's mostly unconscious he's desperate for his touch.

“Mitch,” Auston says firmly, because his chest hurts and it’s too much and he can’t do this right now.

Maybe there’s something in his voice, because Mitch’s eyes flutter open this time as he takes a deep inhale, finally, _finally_ waking up. It takes him a second to gain his bearings, blinking a few times.

“I fell asleep,” he surmises, and his tone is already a bit scratchy.

“Yeah,” Auston confirms, and he doesn’t have any presentable excuse for why _his_ voice is so tight.

“On top of you?” Mitch asks, and the question is kind of stupid, honestly.

“Yeah.”

“Your hand’s in my hair,” Mitch notes, staring at the ceiling, and Auston can’t even begin to process the numerous layers of tones that short sentence contains.

He’s stuck between saying “you wouldn’t wake up” and “yeah, well, you kind of put it there”, but he just takes his hand back, holding his neck so he can dig his nails in and retreats back to the familiar “Yeah.”

There’s a few beats of silence, then finally Mitch just says, “Oh.”

And doesn’t get up.

Good fucking god.

“So,” Auston ventures quietly, “Unless I’m sleeping here…”

“What?” Mitch asks, and there is absolutely not a trace of excitement in his voice before the actual meaning kicks in. There isn’t. “Oh. _Oh_ , yeah, no, sorry, I’ll just… Yeah.”

He finally curls forward so Auston can stand, stretching out the muscles that have been locked in position for probably at least an hour and a half. He reaches for his phone to call for another Uber before thinking _fuck it_ , and decides that he wants the fresh air to go and flag down a cab.

He finds his jacket he threw down somewhere as Mitch wordlessly takes out the DVD, turns off the TV, and uncharacteristically puts the remotes away. Eye contact is not a thing that is happening, apparently. Which is probably for the best. At least for now.

Auston’s pretty much at the door when hears Mitch call “Matts?”

He stops, ordering his body to turn around, because anything else would just be shitty, and this is still his best friend.

“Sorry we didn’t get to actually finish the move marathon,” Mitch offers with a bit of a smile, eyes earnest as always.

Auston gives him a small smirk. “I mean, I did get to finish the movie marathon,” he points out, even if it’s mostly a lie seeing as he spent most of his time looking down instead of at the screen. “You, on the other hand, missed out.”

Mitch snorts. “Fair enough,” he admits. “I still made it longer than Naz though, so.”

Auston rolls his eyes, relief pouring in at how the exchange between them already feels like what they’d usually do. “Still didn’t beat me,” he observes airily, turning to reach for the doorknob. “You’ve still got work to do, Marns, I mean, unless you’re happy being second best. But good luck there, number one’s pretty hard to beat. Or so I hear.”

Mitch gags. “So fucking cocky,” he sighs, shaking his head as he holds the door open so Auston can walk through it, laughing quietly.

“See ya for practice Mitchy,” he says with another smirk, heading for the elevator.

“Yup,” Mitch agrees with a smile, popping the p and leaning against the doorframe.

It’s almost normal. Almost.

xx

Auston’s fucking around on Instagram the night after the movie marathon when for some reason it hits him.

_It’s not the sex._

The idea floods his brain with such a furious vengeance that it momentarily sends him reeling with the sheer anger coming across with the thought, like his brain has come up with an answer and despises what it now sees as truth. Still. It won’t deny it. Interesting.

A headache blossoms a split second after the half-processed realization; a punishment for thinking about ‘The Mitch Thing’ at all (because apparently even _subconscious_ consideration is still unacceptable). For a split second Auston seriously debates shoving the budding idea to the side and trying to forget it existed in the first place. It’d probably be the safest thing to do, but a deeper part of himself is tugging at his curious side, urging him forward with something so mysteriously intoxicating that it’s hard to say no.

He shuts his eyes for a moment and sighs, cursing (not for the first time) his life and everything in it before pushing himself off the couch and grabbing his car keys from the countertop. If he’s going to work through this goddamned ticking time bomb, then he at least needs to keep himself occupied simultaneously with something far more manageable – something he _can_ control.

 

Auston’s out driving along the Lakeshore in under ten minutes, keeping a firm lock on his thoughts until he’s fully immersed in the oddly calming stream of traffic; lights illuminating the night and muted sounds of the city filling the air. Granted, late-night introspection is quickly becoming more of a _thing_ than he probably wants it to be, but it seems to be working for him.

Slowly he lets the idea seep back into his mind, trying not to let it overwhelm him.

_It’s not the sex._

At first it doesn’t make sense; of _course_ the emotions towards Mitch – or should he say the _illusion_ of emotions – were caused by the sex. But then a memory clicks into place – the split second before he woke Mitch up the evening of the movie marathon. He remembers it clearer than he’s usually able to think about times he’s spent with Mitch: a fluttering in his stomach, a tingle in his chest, a blindsiding urge to do something else, to lean down, to press his lips gently against-

 _Enough!_ a voice growls, and Auston has to settle his heartrate.

 _Yeah_ , he recognizes shakily, gripping the steering wheel, maybe that happened. Maybe he wanted to kiss Mitch awake. Maybe he liked holding him with the irrational feeling of keeping him safe instead causing him a seemingly never-ending confusing pain like he usually does. Maybe Auston wanted to stay there all night and lose himself in the calming echo of Mitch’s breaths. Maybe he felt something strong wash over him when Mitch leaned into his touch like he craved it. Maybe the yearning for getting that pressure against his fingertips just one more time never really left.

Maybe it isn’t the sex.

Maybe it’s just _them._

The first reaction to that realization most definitely should not be a rush of excitement that sex should therefore no longer be off the table, but it is; a burst of relief and impatience and need exploding mere seconds after. He should definitely be more terrified than he is, overanalyzing and furious and disgusted with himself, but his brain is stuck on that first thought, playing it over and over like a reassurance.

_They can have sex again._

A car honks behind him and Auston jumps, kicking himself when he realizes that he was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t realize the light in front of him had turned green. He hits the accelerator a little too hard, getting himself backup to speed and focused on the road. The sudden noise was probably a good thing though, shocking him back to reality in more ways than one and forcing him back to the other side of this realization.

Auston can’t _do_ feelings. He can’t accept them, can’t deal with them, can’t encourage them. Not like this. Not towards Mitch.

It doesn’t even make any sense. He thought he had constructed a system that was absolutely airtight; preventing any chance of bullshit emotions or situations like these. Every time in the past he’d felt something dangerous, the thought had been swallowed up and promptly buried somewhere when the sun doesn’t shine. So maybe… Maybe these will be too. Maybe it’s just a temporary situation until his brain learns to compensate. It’s perfectly logical to assume that his brain doesn’t quite know how to process something he’s never put it through before. So, with enough time, it’ll probably figure itself out and clean through his mind with a Mitch-sex-specific blowtorch. It’s always done its job in the past, there’s no reason to start panicking over a devastating flaw now. No need to panic.

Auston turns the corner and turns the idea over in his mind, looking for holes in reasoning.

It seems solid. Slightly tenuous in places, but an inexplicably overwhelming need to accept the idea as proof sweeps away any further scrutiny. It’s good enough for now.

Auston relaxes into the seat with all the hard work for the evening finally sealed up and finished. His brain won’t stop working though, drifting towards certain things he was scared to think about when he wasn’t sure if his head was still on straight. As the minutes go by, the thoughts only get stronger, growing and cresting like a wave until he suddenly feels uncomfortable inside his tight jeans.

He forces himself to focus once more on the road, finally looking around outside the window and for maybe the first time really takes in his surroundings. He’s about two blocks away from Mitch’s apartment.

Auston almost laughs. Fuck the name; his subconscious has got to be one of the least subtle things inside his brain. He pulls over into a vacant parking lot, checking the time and quickly trying to decide what he’s about to do.

It’s not much of a competition; his mind swimming with images and sounds and memories that are starting to take over complete control in a way he’s starting to become accustomed to. There’s really only one thing that Auston _can_ do at this point.

He swallows hard, reaching into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve his phone. He writes a text, thumb hovering over the send button that will seal his fate.

 _You and Mitch are never having sex again,_ a familiar voice hisses from inside his mind, reminding him of an earlier promise with a disgusted tone; that it probably couldn’t hurt to stay away from that certain activity for awhile, just to be safe, just until his emotions feel normal again.

Auston wavers.

Out of nowhere, a vivid memory of Mitch gasping out his name flashes through his mind, his face utterly lost, his nails raking lines across Auston’s back as his body shakes through the euphoria underneath him. It hits him like a bullet, taking out the previous voice of warning like it never really stood a chance and shattering his resolve to be cautious; to be _good_.

He hits send.

_Outgoing: You doing anything rn?_

Auston bites a nail while he waits, trying his best to not think at all. It doesn’t take long to get a response.

_Incoming (Marns): Nothin much, just texting the bro and watching Netflix_

Auston breathes out slowly, trying to figure out how to play it, but his phone vibrates again before he can write anything.

_Incoming (Marns): Kinda bored tbh, you wanna hang?_

Again, Auston almost wants to start laughing (albeit slightly hysterically). Mitch makes it too easy.

_Outgoing: Be there in 10_

It would probably take more like two minutes to be upstairs and knocking on Mitch’s door, but he’s not about to admit that he’s been driving around the city for close to half an hour trying to decide whether or not he wants to fuck again. This is just… easier. Safer. Although none of this plan seems particularly _safe_.

He shifts the car out of park and pulls out again into the night, driving in meandering circles to kill time and attempting with everything in his power to force his brain into that blissful state of static.

 _You and Mitch are never having sex again_ , the voice whispers once more; but this time it sounds faint. Confused.  Like it’s repeating the words over and over without any real motivation or conviction, saying again while trying to come to terms with the onslaught of other emotions flooding his brain. Two sides trying to coexist and crashing together in a cacophony of noise and chaos.

 _Yes,_ Auston pushes back, trying to remind himself that the act only means something if he wants it to. _We are._

The decision might very come back to haunt him and lead down another road of disaster, but it’s the one he’s making. Between the fear and the desire and the confusion and the heartache lies a tiny part of himself that’s tired of saying no. And it’s starting to fight back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the true madness begins... Get ready - it's gonna start getting pretty intense from here on out. Also I wanna thank all of you who sent your love RE: my family member's health; you're so incredibly sweet <3 It's still chaotic around here (hence the late comment replies & this upload taking freaking forever), but the next few chapters are mostly written already, so we should be good to go :) Sidenote: is anyone else crying over the final regular season game being tonight? Because holy shit, this season flew by so fast and it's giving me emotions!!! And just once more I wanna thank you wonderful humans for your comments and kudos. I've lost track of the number of smiles and laughter you've given me.
> 
> Chapter is from a song of the same name by MAX feat. gnash. I thought it was appropriate considering the movie night.


	10. We Don’t Always Say What We Mean

Auston never understood what people meant when they said they were addicted to sex. For him it was always something that was borderline uncomfortable and undeniably forced, but definitely a sure way to clear his mind. Even still, never in a million years would he describe it as _addictive_.

But that was before Mitch. That was before he let himself fall far enough that he lost himself in best friend's body. That was before he felt the lightning strike somewhere deep enough to be his soul and connect him to another human being. That was before he heard the sounds he could force out of Mitch almost without trying, before their bodies moved together in a synchronized rhythm that was desperate and glorious, before it felt like the word fucking was becoming synonymous with losing his mind in the greatest way possible.

Now he can't stop. The craving is there all the time, lying low in the wings and taunting him with utterly explicit snapshots of memories at the most inopportune times. Mitch acts the same way, eagerly snapping their lips together and tearing off their clothes almost as soon as they have a moment alone. Auston doesn't stop him, doesn't even want to, just yearns for the same taste on his tongue that's already become equal in his brain to pleasure.

There's a stupid incredulous thought that keeps popping into his head whenever something like that happens, a question with no answer. He has no fucking idea how happy married couples walk around all the time living functional lives without spending every waking second naked and attached however possible. For the first time in his life, the concept of a honeymoon makes perfect sense. He and Mitch aren't even dating, aren't even involved emotionally, not like _that_ , and the pull is already absolutely magnetic. Barely containable, honestly, and getting more and more unstoppable with every quiet whimper of his name in a certain dark-haired man’s voice.

It's ridiculous how quickly they fall off the edge too, how desperate they both are to do it all over again the second it's finished. It's become a kind of insatiable need, a dangerous one, and Auston knows that by now they're too far gone to even try and stop it.

He should probably be furious with himself - and he is - but it's secondary to the fear, tertiary to the unquenchable lust. It's an addiction, and now Auston finally understands what they mean when they say saying no is not an option, or just 'just one last time' can never truly be enough.

xx

Auston’s out with Willy for coffee on an off-day when the question slips out.

He expects yelling, a vehement denial, something akin to fireworks. But all he gets is an amused look, a twinkle in his eye.

“What do you mean what’s going on with me and Kappy?”

It’s something Auston’s been wondering about ever since Brownie’s birthday party, long before then if he’s actually being honest. The party might’ve just been the first time he had his eyes open wide enough with the right amount of liquid courage to actually see what’s been right in front of him. He’s well aware it’s none of his fucking business (and on top of that that, he might not actually _want_ to hear the answer), but there’s been this urge eating away at him day after day that eventually pushed him over the edge. It’s not like if Kappy and Willy are fucking it gives him permission to do it too, it’s just…

Honestly he doesn’t know what it might mean. But something inside him needs the answer nonetheless. And when Kappy showed up today to drop off a tie Willy needed for an interview later and left with a one-two punch of a kiss on the cheek followed by the middle finger and an affectionate grin, Auston gawked until Willy noticed and asked him what was wrong.

So Auston asked.

“I mean,” he reiterates, averting eye contact at all costs by stirring his latte, “Like, what’s you guyses’ deal?”

“That basically the same question,” Willy explains patiently, a smirk threatening. “You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific than-”

“Are you fucking?” Auston interrupts bluntly, probably louder than he should’ve, and Willy’s mouth snaps shut, lips quickly turning upwards amusedly, eyes wide and dancing. 

The woman at the table next to them stares over with raised eyebrows, closing her book and pointedly getting up to leave.

“Maybe we should take this on the road,” Willy suggests quietly, hopping off the stool and grabbing his jacket, not waiting for Auston’s approval.

“You’re the one who said to be fucking specific,” Auston mutters testily, but gets up too, zipping up his jacket.

They wander easily down Parliament Street for a few silent minutes, quickly turning to stick to the smaller roads to avoid the Leafs’ Nation eternally asking for autographs and photos.

“You gonna ask again?” Willy inquires eventually, and Auston groans, cursing everything.

“Don’t make me,” he begs, shooting over a dark look. The entire conversation already seems like a horrible idea, but the same part of himself that has to know the answer is stubborn enough to press on.

Willy grins, nudging him none-too-gently in the ribs. “ _Ja_ ,” he confirms easily, “We’re fucking. Have been for a while now. I had no clue you hadn’t already figured it out.”

Auston’s stomach flips and he takes a long drink to try and stall for time. It shouldn’t change anything. Except it sort of feels like it changes everything. “Why the hell do you think I would’ve figured that out?” he finally asks, eyes carefully facing front.

“Everyone else on the team knows.”

Auston stops in his tracks. “ _What_?”

Willy turns to his side, awkwardly trying to avoid the foot traffic piling up, and tugs insistently on Auston’s coat, forcing him to keep walking and quit blocking the sidewalk.

“What?” Willy parrots innocently, linking their arms (probably to avoid another incident). “It’s not my fault you’re oblivious, dude.”

Auston scoffs automatically at the insult, but his mind internally in whirring. “No one cares?” he asks.

Willy shoots him a look. “Why would anyone care that we’re fucking? It’s not messing with the team. Why should it matter?”

As if it’s just that easy. Pure indignant fury shoots momentarily through Auston’s veins at how _simple_ Willy makes it sound; how utterly inherent the acceptance is. But then he kicks himself because he wouldn’t wish _his_ fucking brain on anyone.

“Does Mitch know?” Auston finds himself asking, unsure why it matters.

“Of course,” Willy confirms happily. “He found us kissing at a party one night and started hugging us like the adorable little psycho that he is. He got all serious though, saying that he was never gonna be as happy as we were and to never take it for granted and all that shit… I think he was a bit drunk y’know?”

Auston nods, his world tilting on end at the second half of Mitch’s comments, chest twisting cruelly at the words Willy never would’ve shared if only he knew. The words about _them_.

They walk in comfortable silence a few minutes more, Auston recovering from the surprise attack of emotion he’s trying to shove down, both enjoying the crisp but not overly frigid air of early afternoon. There’s a brief wave of relief overcoming him that he doesn’t feel any ounce of disgust toward his liney and close friend. There’s confusion, sure, a little bit of unease discussing the specifics and a shitload of shock, but no hatred. No urge to stop their arms from brushing together, no desire to turn around and walk away, no lingering feelings of the Scandinavian duo being unforgivably deviant. No; his brain saves those thoughts solely for himself. Of course.

“So does that mean,” Auston finally asks, the thought occurring to him, “That you two are, like… Or are you just…?”

Willy raises an amused eyebrow. “Finish the thought,” he coaches obnoxiously.

Auston gives him the finger, but manages to get out an unsteady “Like, what are you guys?”

“Well,” Willy sighs with a soft smile forming on his lips, tossing his coffee cup in a nearby garbage bin. “Kappy is this adorable kid from Finland, about my height, endearingly crooked nose, thinks he’s hilarious and often is, baby soft skin, wicked fast on the ice, even faster in bed, but you didn’t hear that from me-”

Auston puts his hands on his ears as best he can, fake retching from the information he never _ever_ wanted to posses in his brain. “You know what I mean!” he objects in a raised voice.

Willy cackles, reaching out to yank Auston’s hands away from his head. “You mean what are we to each other?” he clarifies with a smirk, and Auston nods.

“Well,” he starts again, that same dopey grin set on his face, “I'm his Willy and he's my Kassu.”

Auston blinks. “Huh?”

Willy shrugs. “That’s really all there is to it, man. I’m his and he’s mine, and we don’t fuck around. Simple as that.”

Auston feels his brow furrow in confusion. “But what about labels?” he asks, almost feeling thrown by the level of nonchalance mixed with the unmistakable care towards the Finn. “’Cuz, like, haven’t you both dated other women? So then are you guys like, y’know… gay? Or what? Do you even know what you guys want from each other? What you’re even working towards?”

Auston’s well aware he’s running his mouth, too aware that he’s rushing his words and rapidly running out of breath, but the questions keep coming, pouring out before he can stop them. “And what about hockey? Doesn’t it seriously fuck with the dynamics and everything when one of you plays in the AHL sometimes and one’s in the NHL? Or when one of you is playing first line and the other’s fourth? Wouldn’t that mess with you?”

They’ve stopped near a park now, pausing on the now-empty sidewalk, but Auston’s not done. “But even forget hockey – you guys can never act how you want to in public because everyone knows you! So how does that even work? You just live in secret the whole time? Pretending not to give a shit unless you’re alone? Haven’t you guys ever wanted to go for a date? Don’t you ever question if it’s worth it?”

 Auston bites his tongue to shut himself up, chest rising and falling far too quickly for a casual stroll as the emotions start welling up inside him; too much of his own life coming free. He looks down to a moment to catch his breath, hoping like hell he didn’t just give himself away. 

When he looks up again, Willy’s tilting his head at him, a curious smile playing his lips. "Dude," he says quietly, "I adore him and he adores me. Life is always gonna be messy, but why make what we have complicated?"

Auston almost says “because it’s always complicated,” but then he realizes slowly and painfully that maybe it only seems complicated because it’s inside his own head. That should be a good thing, probably, but honestly it only feels terrifying.

xx

He and Mitch agree to hang out that evening at Auston’s apartment for once, settling for tacos and a Game of Thrones marathon so they can finally catch up on Season 7 and stop yelling at Mo for trying to spoil them about The Bastard of Winterfell.

And really, Auston lasts an impressively long time before caving. He’s actually morbidly proud of how long he forces himself to hold out and keep his distance and keep the touching platonic before take out bags are being forced aside and the TV is paused and he and Mitch are tangled together on the couch with pieces of fabric are being pulled off with a shameless amount of speed. Mitch seems to share the same sense of impatience and urgency, and Auston doesn’t even have to subtly direct the makeout session to advance into something less romantic this time. It’s all grabbing and feeling and as much contact as humanly possible on the limited space they have on the couch.

Auston finally manages to pull them into the bedroom without having to fight too much or verbalize what he’s trying to do, wanting the full mobility tonight to take Mitch apart piece by fucking piece; his conversation with Willy creating an inexplicable but unmistakable need to go all in.

The fact that he’s inviting Mitch onto his own bed is a major event that isn’t lost on him, but he tries to shove the seemingly enormous significance into something more forgettable, something he can work with.

 _His bed is just a tool_ , he tells himself, and right now all he needs it do is exist in a stable position so he can fuck Mitch’s brains out and get himself lost in the process. After that, it goes back to being the place where he sleeps again. He knows it’s risky to do this at his own house because he has to trust that Mitch will get up and leave like they’ve silently agreed as opposed to Auston having the power to simply walk out. But they’ve been doing this long enough now that the few times this has happened on the couch, everything generally moves smoothly. They both know what’s expected.

Mitch tries to take in the surroundings of Auston’s bedroom as they make their way in, but his eyes keep fluttering shut at the nipping kisses on his lips and meandering hand trailing purposefully down his back. It’s intentional, of course, Auston none-to-eager to give the illusion of inviting any sort of open welcome mat to his own personal space. He can’t tell if Mitch gets the silent message or just gives in to the emotion, but he abruptly pulls Auston down with him onto the mattress, flipping them over so Mitch is straddling his waist.

And _that_ … that’s new.

Mitch kisses him long and deep, pushing him down by the shoulders so Auston’s pressed into the bed on his back. It feels like he’s being stuck by lightning, hit over and over and overwhelmed with it all. He’s frozen with the foreign sensation of another body lying against him – on _top_ of him – mind scrambled and trying to decide what the fuck is happening; trying to decide if he can give up this level of control.

 _Why make it complicated?_ Willy’s voice murmurs in his brain, and normally the voice of his linemate would be the absolute _last_ thing Auston wants to hear in situations such as this, but this time it flicks a switch in his brain and suddenly the control doesn’t mean _shit_. All that matters is _them_ and that flooding need to take Mitch apart, and lying on his back like this suddenly feels fucking _glorious_. It’s like instead of barely touching, he’s _surrounded_ by electricity; caught in the fire and loving the burn.

Just as Auston’s starting to get into it, kissing him back, Mitch abruptly pulls away, a look of realization mixed with guilt in his eyes as he yanks his hands back from where they’re holding Auston’s shoulders down as if he’s just now figuring out what position he put them in.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes wide, “I’m sorry, I- I shouldn’t have done that, I wasn’t fucking thinking, I know you’re always on top-”

“Mitch,” Auston interrupts, surprising himself by speaking but not regretting the words, “Just- Fucking kiss me, okay?”

Mitch swallows, nodding, offering a hand to help Auston up, clearly not getting the message.

Auston sighs frustratedly, knowing full well he’ll never be able to get out the words he needs to say. So instead he reaches out and grabs Mitch’s outstretched hand and yanks his body back down, trying with extreme effort not to smile at tiny “oof” sound he makes when he falls combined with a wonderfully baffled expression a few inches from his own face.

They stay locked like that for a moment, a new realization coming across Mitch’s face, their heartbeats pounding against each other.

“You sure?” Mitch asks in a whisper, his breath tickling Auston’s lips.

He answers by leaning up and pressing their mouths together, arms wrapping around Mitch’s waist to bring him down even closer, too scared and too embarrassed to ask for more of the intoxicating contact. Mitch sinks into him immediately, moaning quietly into the kiss and sending beautiful vibrations into Auston’s sensitive skin.

It just gets messier from there; Mitch pinning Auston’s wrists against the sheets and grinding down until both their hips are moving against each other with dirty twists. Somewhere in the back of Auston’s mind is a reminder to make this good – to make it even more exceptional than usual – and when Mitch reluctantly pulls away and asks him with a concerned look what they’re going to do for lube, he gets an idea.

Honestly? Auston broke down just over a week ago and bought a tube of his own lube online. It arrived the night before and is currently sitting tucked under a pile of sweaters in a drawer. But he’s not about to admit that. Not yet.

Auston draws on that slightly foreign urge to please, drawing every bit of strength he can to keep eye contact, and very slowly tugs his right hand away from Mitch’s constraining grip until his first two fingers are dipping between his lips.

Mitch’s mouth drops open, eyes going dark. His chest ceases movement, caught and trapped in the moment, and everything seems to slow down. Something like power surges through Auston’s body; adrenaline and confidence spiking his blood as he gets the digits nice wet.

“Holy fuck,” Mitch chokes out, looking overwhelmed. Perfect.

Auston tries to supress a grin, slowly pulling his fingers out and raising his eyebrows in confirmation.

“It’ll be rougher,” Mitch gets out in a whisper, and pauses just long enough to make Auston hesitate.

“But I think that’s really fucking good right about now,” Mitch finishes with a glint in his eye, hips twitching as if in agreement.

That’s everything Auston needed to hear. He dips his fingers in his mouth once more to quickly get them nice and warm and wet before reaching around to slip them between Mitch’s ass cheeks, quickly running across his hole with now-practiced motions. The shivers he normally is aware of are now shudders against his own body, and it causes an almost feedback loop of sensation. Mitch lets out a quiet noise and shifts his body to make it easier for Auston to reach, pressing his face into Auston’s neck in the process.

That motion is a bit too intimate for his standards, a bit too close to allow even now, and Auston gently turns his head, moving away, shattering a piece of his heart in the process.

Mitch apparently gets the message and quickly shifts his head over so it’s resting half on the comforter and half on Auston’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” he tries, but it comes out as a gasp as Auston slips a finger in.

“It’s fine,” he whispers, closing his eyes so he can’t watch Mitch’s face as he starts a slow dragging rhythm. It’s slightly more awkward doing it lying like this, but if the noises floating into the air are any indication, it must feel really good. Normally the sounds don’t start up until there’s at least two. Then again, maybe it’s the lack of lube. Mitch was right; it definitely feels rougher. But clearly that’s something he enjoys on occasion.

Mitch asks for more well before Auston expects, and he turns his head with a concerned expression to see determined blue eyes staring back at him, imploring.

“Please,” Mitch whispers, barely there, and Auston’s vision temporarily goes white. He can’t argue with that.

Auston gently pulls his finger out and wets his seconds finger, feeling Mitch’s gaze burning into him the whole while. It’s a slow and careful push back in with two, so much so he feels like he’s back to that first time where he’s genuinely scared he’s causing pain. But Mitch just breathes and takes it and presses his forehead into the bed muttering broken curses under his breath. Auston watches this time, needing to make sure he’s okay, watching everything unfold and finding a fluttering in his chest.

“You aright?” he finds himself asking, too much worry spilling over in his voice.

Even though Auston can only see half of his face, he can feel it against his skin when Mitch smiles.

“It feels different,” he admits quietly, “But it’s so good, Matts, holy shit.”

Auston’s body flares hot and he tries to settle his face with only limited success. “Can I move?” he asks, proud of how even his voice sounds; a raging storm crackling hidden underneath.

Mitch twitches his hips, urging him on, nodding and turning his head to make piercing eye contact.

It feels tighter than usual, almost odd without the slick of the lube, but the motion of his fingers come back without him even trying, Mitch’s quiet moans on harder thrusts moving him forward and slowly eating away any trace of concern, instead turning it to heat.

It’s not long before Mitch is again demanding more, and by now Auston is far too gone and into the rougher feeling to hesitate, wetting another finger and pushing his way in, heart thumping in his chest at the sound it causes from Mitch.  They’re both painfully hard now, never taken this long to get themselves ready, and the pace is getting more furious, less patient. Auston’s wrist is burning from the uncomfortable angle, but there isn’t a thought of slowing down or even stopping in his mind; Mitch’s obvious lust keeping him going. Mitch has started pushing back against the thrusts, bracing his hands on Auston’s shoulders and forcing himself onto the fingers, gasping when he hits the spot he wants. The whole thing is escalating to a point where Mitch could probably get off like this if they wanted to call it quits, but they both know how much better it could be – however impossible that might seem.

Quite honestly, a part of Auston wants to stay on his back like this forever; lost in a hazy mist and surrounded so that all he can hear, all he can see, all he can smell, all he can feel is Mitch – every one of his senses captured and intoxicated.

But this time it isn’t about him.

Auston forces his hand to slowly slow down and withdraw, his chest clenching at Mitch’s mewl of protest. He resists the urge to brush the dark and sweaty hair back from Mitch’s forehead, instead settling a hand on the small of his back to keep them close and carefully guiding them to flip over. He looks away immediately, keeping an old promise to not savour the sight of his best friend like this, and takes the opportunity to gently lift and scoot Mitch’s body up the bed so his head is resting on the pillows. It’s probably too intimate an action, the half-muted voices in his head screaming affirmative, but it’s too late to change now.

“Aus,” Mitch murmurs softly, and that all but confirms that the gesture wasn’t simply overlooked.

Auston swallows, hoping he didn’t just give too much away, and pulls back to slip off the bed and stride over to his chest of drawers, quickly finding the well-hidden tube of lube in an old Team USA jersey. As much as Mitch seemed to enjoy doing that mostly dry, he’s pretty sure saliva alone wouldn’t make fucking feel as good as lube could.

 

He turns around to find Mitch propped up on his elbows watching him, his face flashing a few different emotions as he registers what’s in Auston’s hand.

“You had it this whole time?” he asks incredulously and without a trace of anger, something like amusement dancing in his eyes.

Auston keeps his mouth shut, not about to confirm what’s already obvious, a bit of self-consciousness seeping in like acid. He looks steadily down as he kneels back onto the mattress, getting between Mitch’s legs and trying to settle back into the rhythm of the absence of thinking and instinctive action. He’s got the cap of the lube half unscrewed when a tentative hand stops him and forces his gaze back up.

“Number one,” Mitch says quietly, expression honest and even, “That was hot as fuck, don’t even get me started, so cut any of the embarrassed, self-conscious bullshit that’s going on.”

“Mitch-” Auston warns in a low tone, not allowing any sort of discussion like that to happen - no matter how good it might feel to hear in a small part of his brain.

Mitch narrows his eyes unapologetically, eyebrows furrowing like he’s studying Auston carefully, lips twisting into an unreadable expression. It’s as if he’s trying to look straight through him so he can see inside; understand all the innerworkings and reasons why he makes Mitch be so careful with his speech. The stare is penetrating, piercing, and idiotically Auston gets scared the other man is peering directly into his soul.

"What's number two?" he asks with effort, figuring anything would be less dangerous than this eye contact.

He's wrong.

"Number two," Mitch says, suddenly sounding uncharacteristically hesitant; almost timid, "Is this."

He moves slowly, wrapping his arms around Auston's neck and legs around his hips and pressing until he's guiding them back to same intoxicating position they were in before; Mitch on top with eyes lighting up with fire and promise and hips grinding like they can't help it. Auston stares, speechless with a heart racing almost as fast as his mind.

"Fuck me like this," Mitch whispers, lips still in close, leaving shivers behind.

Time always seems to slow down when they're together, but right now the clock seems to have shattered to pieces, everything stopped. Everything around him is Mitch. The fear, the inexperience, the logic, the voices - are irrelevant. He can't say no.

Auston nods his agreement and has to sharply remind himself not to react when Mitch’s lips form a tiny, shocked smile. He tries to pretend his hands aren’t shaking as he slicks himself up, shivering slightly at the cold on his sensitive skin. He wipes his hands on the edge of sheets carelessly, not wanting to move to get tissues.

When he looks up again, he knows it’s with a certain amount of questioning. He refuses to say out loud that he’s never done it this way before – heterosexually or otherwise – but from the steady look in Mitch’s eyes, he doesn’t have to. Mitch leans down to bring their lips together the same way he always does before they fuck (a tradition Auston tries to pretend he hasn’t caught onto) and it brings the same heat and longing and certainty it does every single time. When he pulls away, he places his hands flat on Auston’s torso, scooting his body lower down and rising his ass up.

Auston stares at the ceiling, using every ounce of restraint he posses not to let himself watch. But he can still feel the exact moment Mitch starts to sink down on his dick, can hear the way the breath is forced from his throat, can feel how his fingers are curling in against his skin. Auston’s own nails carve into the mattress, trying desperately not to press his hips upward and finish the slow sheathing going on currently, biting his tongue at the sensation of it all.

Finally, _finally_ , Mitch has taken him to the hilt, and both of them exhale as one. It’s a different feeling that usual, a different angle, and it’s fucking amazing.

“Hey,” Mitch calls gently, slightly breathless, and Auston looks to meet his gaze without thinking.

The sight of Mitch straddling his hips and filled with his dick, skin flushed and gleaming should probably make him want to throw up or something of the sort. What it does instead is effectively stop his heart, eyes immediately locking on and staring with something that feels like… hunger. Desire.

He swallows hard, trying to reset his face from whatever it must look like, chest tightening with how it feels when Mitch leans forward slightly.

“You good?” Mitch murmurs cautiously, and Auston nods sharply, not trusting his voice.

“Okay,” Mitch confirms in the same low tone, pausing for a moment before biting his lip and reaching slowly to grasp lightly onto Auston’s wrists, pulling them toward him.

“What-” Auston objects, heartbeat kicking into high gear at the touch, flinching away a little.

“You’re alright,” Mitch promises, blue eyes calming in the low light. He carefully places Auston’s hands on either side of his hips, his own long fingers blanketing Auston’s for a fleeting moment before he pulls away and braces himself once more on the muscle of his abs. “Hold on.”

The first slow slide of Mitch’s body upwards shocks Auston’s hands into gripping down, his head falling back against the pillow at the feel. His hips twitch without him actually meaning to, unable to resist.

“Steady,” Mitch whispers, pushing back down again.

It feels completely strange to have no control, to simply wait and let Mitch take the lead, letting him push his hips in tiny circles while he gets used to the stretch. But at the same time, it feels good to hear the tiny sounds coming from above, fucking _amazing_ to have the wet heat surrounding him. Tonight he wanted to take Mitch apart. Now he just has to figure out how to do that when they’re like this.

His train of thought is interrupted by Mitch sliding his hands higher up on Auston’s body and using the leverage to force himself up and down again with enough force to make them both gasp.

 _Again_ , Auston wants to say, and settles for squeezing his hands around Mitch’s hips.

The encouragement is met with a weak laugh, hips already rising to do it again as Mitch starts up a painstaking rhythm, pushing hard on the downstroke.

It doesn’t take long before short pants are filling the room, both of them seemingly straining for more. Auston is shaking from the urge to remain stationary, muscles crying out in protest, and when Mitch lets out a shaky and broken “Aus, _move_ ,” he honestly wants to weep with how badly he wants it, how quickly he feels himself react.

He thrust his hips up on the next downstroke and it feels like fucking fireworks. Mitch lets out a breathless moan so loud Auston worries for a split second about neighbours before realizing he doesn’t give a single shit right now. His chest is breaking open with his new freedom, and he moves up again to meet Mitch hips honestly feeling like he’s flying.

“Oh, holy fuck,” Mitch swears under his breath, grinding down roughly, and Auston has chew on his lips to keep himself from responding, from groaning, from whining, _anything_. The urge is stronger than ever, becoming overwhelming, and he’s not sure how long he can hold it off. His fingers are pressing deep into Mitch skin, maybe deep enough to leave imprints, and he tries to pretend that the concept of that doesn’t make him impossibly harder.

They’re moving faster now, Mitch leaning forward and bracing himself so he can start a relentless grind on every stroke. Auston’s almost lifting him now, urging him on and forcing him down harder, thrusting up in a rhythm that’s leaving them both on the edge.

“Almost there,” Mitch gasps, twitching like he’s trying to reach something. Auston licks his lips, shutting his eyes tight to avoid the temptation of staring at a euphoric and breathless Mitch. He angles his hips a slightly different angle and hopes he get where he needs to, forcing himself not to let go of himself just yet. Tonight is about Mitch.

The next thrust causes a whine, a tiny whisper of “ _so close_ ”, and Auston fights through the electricity in his veins, pushing up again, and this time he nails it, Mitch crying out and gasping, his nails digging into his skin.

“ _Auston_ ,” Mitch sobs beautifully, body coming apart on top of him.

 _Mitch,_ Auston screams inside his head, a ragged breath vibrating through his chest, his hips pistoning up just right to leave them both shaking. He can’t say it, can’t say the word, even if it’s pouring from every inch of his being. But he whimpers, the sound slipping out past every defense he has, and that tiny sound triggers an avalanche; Mitch letting out a broken noise as he finally lets go, clenching down around Auston’s dick and causing a chain reaction of wordless, inexplainable pleasure.

It feels like it lasts forever, both of them clinging together and tumbling through the levels of colours and sounds and sensations. Mitch trembles through the aftershocks on top of him, heaving for air, and neither of them release their hold; Auston’s fingers finding their new home against the smooth expanse of the skin of his hips. Mitch’s hands are pressed flush against Auston’s chest, his thumbs rubbing slow circles there like he needs the motion to stay sane. It’s far too intimate an action for Auston to usually allow, but the post-orgasmic haze gives him the luxury of letting him savour it, feeling the slide of his fingerprints like they’re on fire and burning a brand permanently into his skin like a tattoo.  

 

Eventually Mitch collapses beside him on the bed, both of them panting heavily, bodies limp, trying to bring their minds back to Earth. It’s good - it’s _too good_ \- too potent, too easy, too much and yet still absolutely perfect. His brain is flooded with dopamine, welcoming the high and fighting the urge to smother the feelings before they become real; cemented. Neither of them move as the minutes tick on, their breathing slowly returning to normal, the silence disturbingly normal and unawkward considering what they just did. He tries to remind himself it was wrong. Right now, it doesn’t feel like it.

“’M so tired,” Mitch murmurs, and Auston makes the mistake he somehow knew after the first time they had sex would be his undoing: he looks over.

Mitch’s hair is mussed from where it was pressed against the pillow, cheeks still flushed, eyes fighting a losing battle against fluttering shut, long body laid out and open, muscles weak with exhaustion, the occasional shudder still wracking his body. All of this on _Auston’s_ mattress, tangled in between _Auston’s_ sheets, raggedly breathing the air of _Auston’s_ bedroom. The sight causes a painful twist in his chest, hitting far deeper than he’d like to admit.

“Sleep here then,” Auston hears himself saying like it’s coming out of someone else’s mouth, like he’s living in someone else’s body, thinking with someone else’s mind. He doesn’t mean to offer – sleeping over is actually something he promised himself a long time ago that he’d never let be on the table – but there it is, out there and impossible to take back.

It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room. Mitch’s eyes open wide slowly but certainly, suddenly very awake, like he’s not entirely certain if he heard correctly. He turns his head, lips parted slightly as he studies Auston, looking for the trick or the joke or the hidden test. Maybe he doesn’t find anything, maybe he doesn’t want to; but either way, the small nod and even smaller “Okay” follow a brief moment of silence.

What in the actual the fuck did Auston just do.

He doesn’t honestly know if he can do this; sleep in the same bed while pushing down the threatening feelings and actually achieve anything remotely resembling rest. But he doesn’t exactly have a choice now, so he keeps his expression expressionless, nods tightly in return and blankly responds “alright,” before turning over abruptly to settle under the blankets. If he can’t have distance, he’ll at least have his back to the temptation.

 

It quickly becomes apparent that the idea of sleep is honestly laughable, his body wound so tight he’d need a whole team of trainers to even get on the ice. Mitch’s body weighs heavily next to him, taking up way too much space as usual and shifting nervously every few minutes. He bites back a sigh at the semi-constant movement, trying to pretend that this is a night like any other – him alone, rerunning every play he made in his last game until his mind gives up in protest and finally lets him achieve unconsciousness. Just as he thinks he might be making some legitimate progress, a voice breaks his concentration.

“Matts?”

Auston does sigh this time, finally asking “What?” in a voice that sounds more annoyed than anything, probably.

There’s a long beat without speech before Mitch begins softly. “So, we have sex together. Or get off together. And usually you don’t even want to look at me after that happens until I have clothes on again, but this time you’re telling me it’s okay to stay the night in your bed. And I mean-”

Now it’s Mitch’s turn to sigh, but this one sounds frustrated, a bit emotional, like a release, and Auston has to shut the door on his mind before it responds with something stupid, like words he cannot afford to let out. He refuses to turn from his side, even when he registers Mitch scrubbing his face with too much pressure to feel good.

“Is this just sex to you, Auston?” he asks tightly, like he’s try to struggle with a million different feelings. “Or is it something else? Because I _think_ I understand, I _swear_ I get what’s going on here, and then you do something or you say something or I see something in your face, and I can’t keep reading your fucking mind all the time, alright?”

Auston stares at the wall, hoping to find some revelation or an answer to everything, but all he sees is a blank canvas, desolate and empty. It’s too familiar to his own situation, too terrifyingly open to look at anymore, and he directs his gaze down, trying to focus on nothing.

“I get that you have stuff to deal with, okay?” Mitch continues, and any anger seems to have dissipated into exhaustion. “I get that. And you know that I’m down to do this as long as you are. But I can’t just sit here and let you use me without letting me know what’s going on.”

“I’m not _using_ you,” Auston interjects vehemently, stomach turning at the prospect of non-consent. Their sexual relationship is many things, but one-sided or unwanted is not one of them, and _that_ he knows for certain.

“You know what I mean,” Mitch returns, voice quiet and instantly disarming. “And I’m not asking you to lie down and tell me all your feelings or some shit, but I want to keep doing this, and I just-” He pauses, and Auston can practically see him closing his eyes in the way he always does before OT, trying to clear his racing thoughts. “Is this just sex for you?” he asks again evenly. “Or is it more? If it’s more and you don’t wanna think about it right now, I swear I’ll keep my mouth shut until you’re ready. But whichever it is, I really need to know what I’m supposed to think here, because I’m completely lost, dude.”

If it’s possible to drown in your own mind, Auston is doing it. The noise contained inside his skull is deafening, crushing, burying him in the cacophony that can’t exist – it _can’t_. Fuck him for letting himself get into this situation, fuck Mitch for being so infuriatingly perfect, and _fuck_ the world for making him hate whatever it is that he can in no way shape or form acknowledge between them. A blade like a guillotine slices through the burgeoning thoughts of honesty, the bursting need to let it out and press their bodies together as he whispers the words he wants to speak right against their lightly brushing lips. It can’t happen. The denied desire feels like someone’s ripping strips of skin off of him and clawing at the raw flesh in anguish. But he won’t do it; it’s much risk, too much change, too much vulnerability, too much of everything he’s spent his entire life trying to shove down. The pain is too real to even pretend to ignore. Luckily, the pain is something’s already used to riding through.

“It’s just sex,” Auston lies quietly, squeezing his eyes shut until they hurt. “It’s sex, and that’s it.”

He swears he can hear Mitch swallow hard beside him, followed by a silence that seems to envelop the room. Then, a rustle of sheets, the feel of a shift of weight on the mattress.

“I should go,” Mitch says, low and resigned as he moves to get up. “I just- Yeah. I’ll go.”

Something deep inside Auston snaps, panic brewing at the prospect, and he reaches around, flipping his body in one smooth motion, entirely reflex, pinning Mitch’s chest down with a strong arm. Blue eyes stare back at him, wide and guarded and painfully confused.

There’s a long moment where Auston tries to work through what he’s just done, how much he’s given away; doesn’t even want to touch the prospect of why it happened in the first place. Mitch continues to stare, a realization brewing just out of his perceived realm of possibility, but starting to become more and more possible with each passing moment without speech. Auston can almost see the words _Just sex, eh?_ forming defensively on his tongue, and tries desperately to force out a response before the question can make its way into existence.

“Practice tomorrow morning,” Auston gets out in a last-ditch effort to maintain the illusion of indifference and apathy. “You might as well stay. Y’know, save us an extra trip for nothing.”

Mitch doesn’t speak, and it’s honestly incredibly disconcerting. He just relaxes his body against the mattress and doesn’t for a second look away from their intense eye contact, like he’s given in to whatever it is that’s happening. Trusting in something. In some _one_. In them.

Auston finds himself unable to move, his arm still stretched out across Mitch’s chest, now seemingly more protective than confining. He forces himself to move it, but instead of abruptly pulling away as per the original plan, it drags across the smooth skin upwards until his fingers are gently running along the angle of his jaw. Mitch shudders lightly at the cautious stroke, always ridiculously responsive to his touch, visibly fighting the urge to let his eyes close at the sensation, like he wants to see this.

Auston feels like his body is moving of its own volition, betraying the carefully planned escape route and setting fire to the countless roadblocks he’s set for himself. He never touches Mitch in a way that could even barely be described as intimate unless they’re having sex, and tries to keep those touches down to bare minimum even then. And now he can feel himself moving closer, feels himself hold this weighted gaze that seems to communicate desires without a word, feels himself sweep his thumb in a soft arc along Mitch’s cheekbone and gently hold his jaw. Auston doesn’t consciously let his eyes drop down a fraction of an inch to his mouth, hearing his heart hammering inside his chest like he’s the deciding shot in a shootout – but it happens anyway; skin humming with the recklessness of his actions and mind racing faster than he can entirely comprehend. Mitch’s tongue darts out nervously for a split second, chest rising and falling in anticipation, his face betraying the slightest glimmer of hope. Auston doesn’t let himself think anymore, just moves in and kisses him for what feels like the very first time.

And in a way, it is.

It’s perfect, because of course it is. It’s almost chaste at first; soft and tentative and nothing like what they’ve done before. But then a flicker of a flame lights somewhere deep in Auston’s chest, and he parts his lips, inviting Mitch deeper entirely on instinct. The first slow brush of tongue makes his limbs feel weak and electrified all at the same time. The hand that was cradling Mitch’s jaw slides back to circle the back of his neck, fingers tangling carelessly in long strands of hair. Somewhere he registers Mitch’s hand hovering above his waist, like he’s worried about scaring him off, and Auston moves without thinking, leaning into the tentative touch until the grip on his skin is warm and certain, gradually smoothing around to his bare back, pulling him closer.

The kiss never seems to end, unhurried yet deliberate, searching and soothing and reassuring and liquid heat all wrapped up in one. It feels so natural, so disconcertingly safe if ever there was a contradiction. Auston could fall into this rhythm and lose track of time, never wanting to set eyes on a clock again if it meant he wouldn’t have to stop. It’s like nothing else matters except them, this moment, this slow and easy beautiful kiss.

Eventually they pull away in a gradual glide, neither wanting to break the moment but both needing to breathe a little. Mitch’s lips are a little red, a little swollen, eyes shining with something far too intense for Auston to look at for more than a long moment. Everything feels like it’s swirling around him; the air, the room, his whole body whisked away and caught in a whirlwind of emotion and release. Something wet overflows out of his eye as a bubbling concoction builds up inside his chest, heavy and overwhelming.

Mitch reaches out slowly, as if to brush away the not-tear running down his cheek, but the attempted action is too much, too close, too vulnerable, and Auston turns his head at the last minute, reality crashing down around him. He moves away and turns onto his other side again, refusing to allow himself another glimpse at Mitch’s face and denying the existence of more wet things falling from his eyes in long, silent lines. The lack of contact feels like a punishment, a part of his own body that’s been taken away, just out of reach. It’s almost worse that _he’s_ the one that put it out of reach, that forced himself into this position. Even still, he tries once again to sleep with a now gaping hole, the bed that he’s slept in alone countless times before suddenly seeming empty without a physical reminder of another presence.

Out of nowhere, he feels another body press against his back, solid and warm and real and present. A warm wave of relief flows through him, and his head is too exhausted to even deny himself the experience by immediately ordering that he pull away. The sensations run through him like a current, a small explosion going off when Mitch buries his face in his shoulder and exhales in what sounds like contentment. Auston feels his eyes flutter shut, the very idea of crying suddenly oceans away, muscles releasing properly for the first time in what feels like a decade. He definitely doesn’t press back a little against Mitch, definitely doesn’t let a soft, shaky sigh escape, and above all, he definitely doesn’t think about what it would be like to fall asleep like this for the rest of his life before the dreams pull him under.

Except that maybe he does. And maybe that’s okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see!! I apologize most sincerely for disappearing again, but I was unexpectedly admitted to hospital shortly after the last upload and just recently regained my freedom from their disgusting food. **I’m okay, nobody panic,** my health just leaves quite a bit to be desired; but I didn’t have access to my laptop until a few days ago – hence, no uploads. Anyway, that’s why this story went dark for awhile there. 
> 
> I also apologize again for the lack of comment replies!! I was desperately trying to get this upload up before tonight's game (so I also apologize for any mistakes). On that subject, I'M FREAKING DYING INSIDE. *pants* Okay. Seriously though, the comments you leave make me smile like nothing else and literally mean everything to me. You guys are the most wonderful humans in the world.
> 
> Chapter title is from 'American Teen' by Khalid. Lyrics are relevant, song is not.


	11. UPDATE - nobody panic :)

Okay. Hi. So lemme just save you guys a little bit of stress and not make you wait until the end for me to say: no, this story is not being discontinued, or cancelled, or whatever you might’ve been worried about. I understand that probably the majority of you have forgotten about this fic in your chaotic lives and I might’ve lost a lot of people because of my abrupt disappearance. Just to be clear, of _course_ I don’t blame you for that. But I have gotten a few comments lately wondering WTF is going on, so I wanted to pop in with an update. (Quick apology to anyone who doesn't give a crap about explanations; skip to the last few lines if you want the tldr.)

If you read the Notes at the end of the chapters, you probably know that my health got _real_ shitty early/mid-April. I thought everything was good after a hospital stay, hence why I started uploading again. And then I took another nosedive and kinda sorta almost died. And without getting into too many details because I need to maintain some anonymity/privacy on the internet - _yes_ , I’m okay and I’ll be okay, but I was forced to take a step back from anything even vaguely stress provoking to really get a handle on my health. Working/uploading this story and seeing your reactions gives me a joy that’s hard to parallel, but at the same time, I spend a shitton of time on editing (I don’t have a beta or anything) and planning and making sure everything’s as perfect as I can make it. I also love responding to your comments because they make me so happy and I want you wonderful humans to know that, but it does take some energy to respond to all of them, and, not to sound whiny or at all ungrateful, but some days the simple act of thinking and feeling emotions (even positive ones) physically hurts. And of course because I disappeared for so long, the idea of coming back and facing potentially disappointed/annoyed/completely absent readers kinda compounded aforementioned stress.

So: I’m _not_ posting this for sympathy. I’m _not_ trying to make anyone feel guilty. I just didn’t want you guys to think I didn’t care enough to finish what I started. I'm so sorry you've all been waiting for so absurdly long for a resolution. This story and topic is incredibly important to me personally, and I know it’s also touched at least a few other people too.

I promise you that when I can come back, I will.

I’ve definitely made huge strides and am doing even better than my doctors expected. Although I hope to start writing/posting again in the very near future, I don’t want to promise I’ll be back by a certain time just in case something else happens. Either way, I thought you deserved to know what’s going on.

I love you all you guys a ridiculous amount. Hope to see you again soon.

xx WordsLeftUnspoken <3 <3 <3


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